{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_10051/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_10051","id":"gutenberg_10051","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10051","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Novels","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Death -- Fiction"],"text":"THE LITTLE PILGRIM:\n\n                          Further Experiences\n\n                   By Margaret O. (Wilson) Oliphant\n\n\n\n\nI.\n\nTHE LITTLE PILGRIM IN THE SEEN AND UNSEEN.\n\n\nThe little Pilgrim, whose story has been told in another place, and who\nhad arrived but lately on the other side, among those who know trouble\nand sorrow no more, was one whose heart was always full of pity for the\nsuffering. And after the first rapture of her arrival, and of the blessed\nwork which had been given to her to do, and all the wonderful things she\nhad learned of the new life, there returned to her in the midst of her\nhappiness so many questions and longing thoughts that They were touched\nby them who have the care of the younger brethren, the simple ones of\nheaven. These questions did not disturb her peace or joy, for she knew\nthat which is so often veiled on earth,--that all is accomplished by the\nwill of the Father, and that nothing can happen but according to His\nappointment and under His care. And she was also aware that the end\nis as the beginning to Him who knows all, and that nothing is lost that\nis in His hand. But though she would herself have willingly borne the\nsufferings of earth ten times over for the sake of all that was now hers,\nyet it pierced her soul to think of those who were struggling in\ndarkness, and whose hearts were stifled within them by all the bitterness\nof the mortal life. Sometimes she would be ready to cry out with wonder\nthat the Lord did not hasten His steps and go down again upon the earth\nto make all plain; or how the Father himself could restrain His power,\nand did not send down ten legions of angels to make all that was wrong\nright, and turn all that was mournful into joy.\n\n'It is but for a little time,' said her companions. 'When we have reached\nthis place we remember no more the anguish.' 'But to them in their\ntrouble it does not seem a little time,' the Pilgrim  said. And in her\nheart there rose a great longing. Oh that He would send me! that I might\ntell my brethren,--not like the poor man in the land of darkness, of the\ngloom and misery of that distant place, but a happier message, of the\nlight and brightness of this, and how soon all pain would be over. She\nwould not put this into a prayer, for she knew that to refuse a prayer\nis pain to the Father, if in His great glory any pain can be. And then\nshe reasoned with herself and said, 'What can I tell them, except that\nall will soon be well? and this they know, for our Lord has said it; but\nI am like them, and I do not understand.'\n\nOne fair morning while she turned over these thoughts in her mind there\nsuddenly came towards her one whom she knew as a sage, of the number of\nthose who know many mysteries and search into the deep things of the\nFather. For a moment she wondered if perhaps he came to reprove her for\ntoo many questionings, and rose up and advanced a little towards him with\nfolded hands and a thankful heart, to receive the reproof if it should be\nso,--for whether it were praise or whether it were blame, it was from the\nFather, and a great honor and happiness to receive. But as he came\ntowards her he smiled and bade her not to fear. 'I am come,' he said, 'to\ntell you some things you long to know, and to show you some things that\nare hidden to most. Little sister, you are not to be charged with any\nmission--'\n\n'Oh, no,' she said, 'oh, no. I was not so presuming--'\n\n'It is not presuming to wish to carry comfort to any soul; but it is\npermitted to me to open up to you, so far as I may, some of the secrets.\nThe secrets of the Father are all beautiful, but there is sorrow in them\nas well as joy; and Pain, you know, is one of the great angels at the\ndoor.'\n\n'Is his name Pain? and I took him for Consolation!' the little Pilgrim\nsaid.\n\n'He is not Consolation; he is the schoolmaster whose face is often stern.\nBut I did not come to tell you of him whom you know; I am going to take\nyou--back,' the wise man said.\n\n'Back!' She knew what this meant, and a great pleasure, yet mingled with\nfear, came into her mind. She hesitated, and looked at him, and did not\nknow how to accept, though she longed to do so, for at the same time she\nwas afraid. He smiled when he saw the alarm in her face.\n\n'Do you think,' he said, 'that you are to go this journey on your own\ncharges? Had you insisted, as some do, to go at all hazards, you might\nindeed have feared. And even now I cannot promise that you will not feel\nthe thorns of the earth as you pass; but you will be cared for, so that\nno harm can come.'\n\n'Ah,' she said wistfully, 'it is not for harm--' and could say nothing\nmore.\n\nHe laid his hand upon her arm, and he said, 'Do not fear; though they see\nyou not, it is yet sweet for a moment to be there, and as you pass, it\nbrings thoughts of you to their minds.'\n\nFor these two understood each other, and knew that to see and yet not be\nseen is only a pleasure for those who are most like the Father, and can\nlove without thought of love in return.\n\nWhen he touched her, it seemed to the little Pilgrim suddenly that\neverything changed round her, and that she was no longer in her own\nplace, but walking along a weary length of road. It was narrow and rough,\nand the skies were dim; and as she went on by the side of her guide she\nsaw houses and gardens which were to her like the houses that children\nbuild, and the little gardens in which they sow seeds and plant flowers,\nand take them up again to see if they are growing. She turned to the\nSage, saying, 'What are--?' and then stopped and gazed again, and burst\nout into something that was between laughing and tears. 'For it is home,'\nshe cried, 'and I did not know it! dear home!' Her heart was remorseful,\nas if she had wounded the little diminished place.\n\n'This is what happens with those who have been living in the king's\npalaces,' he said with a smile.\n\n'But I love it dearly, I love it dearly!' the little Pilgrim said,\nstretching out her hands as if for pardon. He smiled at her, consoling\nher; and then his face changed and grew very grave.\n\n'Little sister,' he said, 'you have come not to see happiness but pain.\nWe want no explanation of the joy, for that flows freely from the heart\nof the Father, and all is clear between us and Him; but that which you\ndesire to know is why trouble should be. Therefore you must think of Him\nand be strong, for here is what will rend your heart.'\n\nThe little Pilgrim was seized once more with mortal fear. 'O friend,' she\ncried, 'I have done with pain. Must I go and see others suffering and do\nnothing for them?'\n\n'If anything comes into your heart to do or say, it will be well for\nthem,' the Sage replied: and he took her by the hand and led her into a\nhouse she knew. She began to know them all now, as her vision became\naccustomed to the atmosphere of the earth. She perceived that the sun was\nshining, though it had appeared so dim, and that it was a clear summer\nmorning, very early, with still the colors of the dawn in the east. When\nshe went indoors, at first she saw nothing, for the room was darkened,\nthe windows all closed, and a miserable watch-light only burning. In the\nbed there lay a child whom she knew. She knew them all,--the mother at\nthe bedside, the father near the door, even the nurse who was flitting\nabout disturbing the silence. Her heart gave a great throb when she\nrecognized them all; and though she had been glad for the first moment to\nthink that she had come just in time to give welcome to a little brother\nstepping out of earth into the better country, a shadow of trouble and\npain enveloped her when she saw the others and remembered and knew. For\nhe was their beloved child; on all the earth there was nothing they held\nso dear. They would have given up their home and all they possessed, and\nbecome poor and homeless and wanderers with joy, if God, as they said,\nwould have but spared their child. She saw into their hearts and read all\nthis there; and knowing them, she knew it without even that insight.\nEverything they would have given up and rejoiced, if but they might have\nkept him. And there he lay, and was about to die. The little Pilgrim\nforgot all but the pity of it, and their hearts that were breaking, and\nthe vacant place that was soon to be. She cried out aloud upon the Father\nwith a great cry. She forgot that it was a grief to Him in His great\nglory to refuse.\n\nThere came no reply; but the room grew light as with a reflection out of\nheaven, and the child in the bed, who had been moving restlessly in the\nweariness of ending life, turned his head towards her, and his eyes\nopened wide, and he saw her where she stood. He cried out, 'Look! mother,\nmother!' The mother, who was on her knees by the bedside, lifted her head\nand cried, 'What is it, what is it, O my darling?' and the father, who\nhad turned away his face not to see the child die, came nearer to the\nbed, hoping they knew not what. Their faces were paler than the face of\nthe dying, upon which there was light; but no light came to them out of\nthe hidden heaven. 'Look! she has come for me,' he said; but his voice\nwas so weak they could not hear him, nor take any comfort. At this the\nlittle Pilgrim put out her arms to him, forgetting in her joy the poor\npeople who were mourning, and cried out, 'Oh, but I must go with him! I\nmust take him home!' For this was her own work, and she thought of her\nwonderings and her questions no more.\n\nSome one touched her on the shoulder, and she looked round; and behind\nher was a great company of the dear children from the better country,\nwhom the Father had sent, and not her,--lest he should grieve for those\nhe had left behind,--to come for the child and show him the way. She\npaused for a moment, scarcely willing to give him up; but then her\ncompanion touched her and pointed to the other side. Ah, that was\ndifferent! The mother lay by the side of the bed, her face turned only to\nthe little white body which her child had dropped from him as he came out\nof his sickness,--her eyes wild with misery, without tears; her feverish\nmouth open, but no cry in it. The sword of the angel had gone through and\nthrough her. She did not even writhe upon it, but lay motionless, cut\ndown, dumb with anguish. The father had turned round again and leaned his\nhead upon the wall. All was over,--all over! The love and the hope of a\ndozen lovely years, the little sweet companion, the daily joy, the future\ntrust--all--over--as if a child had never been born. Then there rose in\nthe stillness a great and exceeding bitter cry, 'God!' that was all,\npealing up to heaven, to the Father, whom they could not see in their\nanguish, accusing Him, reproaching Him who had done it. Was He their\nenemy that He had done it? No man was ever so wicked, ever so cruel but\nhe would have spared them their boy,--taken everything and spared them\ntheir boy; but God, God! The little Pilgrim stood by and wept. She could\ndo nothing but weep, weep, her heart aching with the pity and the\nanguish. How were they to be told that it was not God, but the Father;\nthat God was only His common name, His name in law, and that He was the\nFather. This was all she could think of; she had not a word to say. And\nthe boy had shaken his little bright soul out of the sickness and the\nweakness with such a look of delight! He knew in a moment! But they--oh,\nwhen, when would they know?\n\nPresently she sat outside in the soft breathing airs and little morning\nbreezes, and dried her aching eyes. And the Sage who was her companion\nsoothed her with kind words. 'I said you would feel the thorns as you\npassed,' he said. 'We cannot be free of them, we who are of mankind.'\n\n'But oh,' she cried amid her tears, 'why,--why? The air of the earth is\nin my eyes, I cannot see. Oh, what pain it is, what misery! Was it\nbecause they loved him too much, and that he drew their hearts away?'\n\nThe Sage only shook his head at her, smiling. 'Can one love too much?' he\nsaid.\n\n'O brother, it is very hard to live and to see another--I am confused in\nmy mind,' said the little Pilgrim, putting her hand to her eyes. 'The\ntears of those that weep have got into my soul. To live and see another\ndie,--that was what I was saying; but the child lives like you and me.\nTell me, for I am confused in my mind.'\n\n'Listen!' said the Sage; and when she listened she heard the sound of the\nchildren going back with a great murmur and ringing of pleasant voices\nlike silver bells in the air, and among them the voice of the child\nasking a thousand questions, calling them by their names. The two\npilgrims listened and laughed to each other for love at the sound of the\nchildren. 'Is it for the little brother that you are troubled?' the Sage\nsaid in her ear.\n\nThen she was ashamed, and turned from the joyful sounds that were\nascending ever higher and higher to the little house that stood below,\nwith all its windows closed upon the light. It was wrapped in darkness\nthough the sun was shining, the windows closed as if they never would\nopen more, and the people within turning their faces to the wall,\ncovering their eyes that they might not see the light of day. 'O\nmiserable day!' they were saying; 'O dark hour! O life that will never\nsmile again!' She sat between earth and heaven, her eyes smiling, but her\nmouth beginning to quiver once more. 'Is it to raise their thoughts and\ntheir hearts?' she said.\n\n'Little sister,' said he, 'when the Father speaks to you, it is not for\nme nor for another that He speaks. And what He says to you is--' 'Ah,'\nsaid the little Pilgrim, with joy, 'it is for myself, myself alone! As if\nI were a great angel, as if I were a saint. It drops into my heart like\nthe dew. It is what I need, not for you, though I love you, but for me\nonly. It is my secret between me and Him.'\n\nHer companion bowed his head. 'It is so. And thus has He spoken to the\nlittle child. But what He said or why He said it, is not for you or me to\nknow. It is His secret; it is between the little one and his Father. Who\ncan interfere between these two? Many and many are there born on earth\nwhose work and whose life are ordained elsewhere,--for there is no way of\nentrance into the race of man which is the nature of the Lord, but by the\ngates of birth; and the work which the Father has to do is so great and\nmanifold that there are multitudes who do but pass through those gates to\nascend to their work elsewhere. But the Father alone knows whom he has\nchosen. It is between the child and Him. It is their secret; it is as you\nhave said.'\n\nThe little Pilgrim was silent for a moment, but then turned her head from\nthe bright shining of the skies and the voices of the children which\nfloated farther and farther off, and looked at the house in which there\nwas sorrow and despair. She pointed towards it, and looked at him who was\nher instructor, and had come to show her how these things were.\n\n'They are to blame,' he said; 'but none will blame them. The little life\nis hard. The Father, though He is very near, seems far off; and sometimes\neven His word is as a dream. It is to them as if they had lost their\nchild. Can you not remember?--that was what we said. We have lost--'\n\nThen the little Pilgrim, musing, began to smile, but wept again as she\nthought of the father and the mother. 'If we were to go,' she said, 'hand\nin hand, you and I, and tell them that the Father had need of him, that\nit was not for the little life but for the great and beautiful world\nabove that the child was born; and that he had got great promotion and\nwas gone with the princes and the angels according as was ordained?\nAnd why should they mourn? Let us go and tell them--'\n\nHe shook his head. 'They could not see us; they would not know us. We\nshould be to them as dreams. If they do not take comfort from our Lord,\nhow could they take comfort from you and me? We could not bring them back\ntheir child. They want their child, not only to know that all is well\nwith him,--for they know that all is well with him,--but what they want\nis their child. They are to blame; but who shall blame them? Not any one\nthat is born of woman. How can we tell them what is the Father's secret\nand the child's?'\n\n'And yet we could tell them why it must be so?' said the little Pilgrim.\n'For they prayed and besought the Lord. O brother, I have no\nunderstanding. For the Lord said, \"Ask, and it shall be given you;\" and\nthey asked, yet they are refused.'\n\n'Little sister, the Father must judge between His children; and he must\nfirst be heard who is most concerned. While they were praying, the Father\nand the child talked together and said what we know not; but this we\nknow, that his heart was satisfied with that which was said to him. Must\nnot the Father do what is best for the child He loves, whatever the other\nchildren may say? Nay, did not our own fathers do this on earth, and we\nsubmitted to them; how much more He who sees all?'\n\nThe little Pilgrim stole softly from his side when he had done speaking,\nand went back into the darkened house, and saw the mother where she sat\nweeping and refusing to be comforted, in her sorrow perceiving not heaven\nnor any consolation, nor understanding that her child had gone joyfully\nto his Father and her Father, as his soul had required, and as the Lord\nhad willed. Yet though she had not joy but only anguish in her faith, and\nthough her eyes were darkened that she could not see, yet the woman\nceased not to call upon God, God, and to hold by Him who had smitten her.\nAnd the father of the child had gone into his chamber and shut the door,\nand sat dumb, opening not his mouth, thinking upon his delightsome boy,\nand how they had walked together and talked together, and should do so\nagain nevermore. And in their hearts they reproached their God, the giver\nof all, and accused the Lord to His face, as if He had deceived them, yet\nclung to Him still, weeping and upbraiding, and would not let Him go. The\nlittle Pilgrim wept too, and said many things to them which they could\nnot hear. But when she saw that though they were in darkness and misery,\nGod was in all their thoughts, she bethought herself suddenly of what the\npoet had said in the celestial city, and of the songs he sang, which were\na wonder to the Angels and Powers, of the little life and the sorrowful\nearth, where men endured all things, yet overcame by the name of the\nLord. When this came into her mind, she rose up again softly with a\nsacred awe, and wept not, but did them reverence; for without any light\nor guidance in their anguish they yet wavered not, died not, but endured,\nand in the end would overcome. It seemed to her that she saw the great\nbeautiful angels looking on, the great souls that are called to love and\nto serve, but not to suffer like the little brethren of the earth; and\nthat among the princes of heaven there was reverence and awe, and even\nenvy of those who thus had their garments bathed in blood, and suffered\nloss and pain and misery, yet never abandoned their life and the work\nthat had been given them to do.\n\nAs she came forth again comforted, she found the Sage standing with his\nface lifted to heaven, smiling still at the sound, though faint and\ndistant, of the children all calling to each other and shouting together\nas they reached the gate. 'Oh, hush!' she said; 'let not the mother hear\nthem! for it will make her heart more bitter to think she can never hear\nagain her child's voice.'\n\n'But it is her child's voice,' he said; then very gently, 'they are to\nblame; but no one will be found to blame them either in earth or heaven.'\n\nThe earth pilgrims went far after this, yet more softly than when they\nfirst left their beautiful country,--for then the little Pilgrim had been\nglad, believing that as all had been made clear to her in her own life,\nso that all that concerned the life of man should be made clear; but this\nwas more hard and encompassed with pain and darkness, as that which is in\nthe doing is always more hard to understand than that which is\naccomplished. And she learned now what she had not understood, though her\ncompanion warned her, how sharp are those thorns of earth that pierce the\nwayfarer's foot, and that those who come back cannot help but suffer\nbecause of love and fellow-feeling. And she learned that though she could\nsmile and give thanks to the Father in the recollection of her own griefs\nthat were past, yet those that are present are too poignant, and to look\nupon others in their hour of darkness makes His ways more hard to\ncomprehend than even when the sorrow is your own.\n\nWhile she mused thus, there was suddenly revealed to her another sight.\nThey had gone far before they came to this new scene. Night had crept\nover the skies all gray and dark; and the sea came in with a whisper\nwhich sounded to some like the hush of peace, and to some like the voice\nof sorrow and moaning, and to some was but the monotony of endless\nrecurrence, in which was no soul. The skies were dark overhead, but\nopened with a clear shining of light which had no color, towards the\nwest,--for the sun had long gone down, and it was night. The two\ntravellers perceived a woman who came out of a house all lit with lamps\nand firelight, and took the lonely path towards the sea. And the little\nPilgrim knew her, as she had known the father and mother in the darkened\nhouse, and would have joined her with a cry of pleasure; but she\nremembered that the friend could not see her or hear her, being wrapped\nstill in the mortal body, and in a close enveloping mantle of thoughts\nand cares. The Sage made her a sign to follow, and these two tender\ncompanions accompanied her who saw them not, walking darkling by the\nsilent way. The heart of the woman was heavy in her breast. It was so\nsore by reason of trouble, and for all the bitter wounds of the past, and\nall the fears that beset her life to come, that she walked, not weeping\nbecause of being beyond tears, but as it were bleeding, her thoughts\nbeing in her little way like those of His upon whose brow there once\nstood drops as it were of blood; and out of her heart there came a\nmoaning which was without words. If words had been possible, they would\nhave been as His also, who said, 'Father, forgive them, for they know not\nwhat they do.' For those who had wounded her were those whom in all the\nworld she loved most dear; and the quivering of anguish was in her as she\nwalked, seeking the darkness and the silence, and to hide herself, if\nthat might be, from her own thoughts. She went along the lonely path with\nthe stinging of her wounds so keen and sharp that all her body and soul\nwere as one pain. Greater grief hath no man than this, to be slain and\ntortured by those whom he loves. When her soul could speak, this was what\nit said 'Father, forgive them! Father, save them!' She had no strength\nfor more.\n\nThis the heavenly pilgrims saw,--for they stood by her as in their own\ncountry, where every thought is clear, and saw her heart. But as they\nfollowed her and looked into her soul--with their hearts, which were\nhuman too, wrung at the sight of hers in its anguish--there suddenly\nbecame visible before them a strange sight such as they had never seen\nbefore. It was like the rising of the sun; but it was not the sun.\nSuddenly into the heart upon which they looked there came a great silence\nand calm. There was nothing said that even they could hear, nor done that\nthey could see; but for a moment the throbbing was stilled, and the\nanguish calmed, and there came a great peace. The woman in whom this\nwonder was wrought was astonished, as they were. She gave a low cry in\nthe darkness for wonder that the pain had gone from her in an instant, in\nthe twinkling of an eye. There was no promise made to her that her prayer\nwould be granted, and no new light given to guide her for the time to\ncome; but her pain was taken away. She stood hushed, and lifted her eyes;\nand the gray of the sea, and the low cloud that was like a canopy above,\nand the lightening of colorless light towards the west, entered with\ntheir great quiet into her heart. 'Is this the peace that passeth all\nunderstanding?' she said to herself, confused with the sudden calm. In\nall her life it had never so happened to her before,--to be healed of her\ngrievous wounds, yet without cause; and while no change was wrought, yet\nto be put to rest.\n\n'It is our Brother,' said the little Pilgrim, shedding tears of joy. 'It\nis the secret of the Lord,' said the Sage; but not even they had seen Him\npassing by.\n\nThey walked with her softly in the silence, in the sound of the sea, till\nthe wonder in her was hushed like the pain, and talked with her, though\nshe knew it not. For very soon questions arose in her heart. 'And oh,'\nshe said, 'is this the Lord's reply?' with thankfulness and awe; but\nbecause she was human, and knew so little, and was full of impatience,\n'Oh, and is this _all_?' was what she next said. 'I asked for _them_, and\nThou hast given to _me_--' then the voice of her heart grew louder, and\nshe cried, with the sound of the pain coming back, 'I ask one thing, and\nThou givest another. I asked no blessing for me. I asked for them, my\nLord, my God. Give it to them--to them!' with disappointment rising in\nher heart. The little Pilgrim laid her hand upon the woman's arm,--for\nshe was afraid lest our Lord might be displeased, forgetting (for she was\nstill imperfect) that He sees all that is in the soul, and understands\nand takes no offence,--and said quickly, 'Oh, be not afraid; He will save\nthem too. The blessing will come for them too.'\n\n'At His own time,' said the Sage, 'and in His own way.'\n\nThese thoughts rose in the woman's soul. She did not know that they were\nsaid to her, nor who said them, but accepted them as if they had come\nfrom her own thoughts. For she said to herself, 'This is what is meant by\nthe answer of prayer. It is not what we ask; yet what I ask is according\nto Thy will, my Lord. It is not riches, nor honors, nor beauty, nor\nhealth, nor long life, nor anything of this world. If I have been\nimpatient, this is my punishment,--that the Lord has thought, not of\nthem, but of me. But I can bear all, O my Lord! that and a thousand times\nmore, if Thou wilt but think of them and not of me!'\n\nNevertheless she returned to her home stilled and comforted; for though\nher trouble returned to her and was not changed, yet for a moment it\nhad been lifted from her, and the peace which passeth all understanding\nhad entered her heart.\n\n'But why, then,' said the little Pilgrim to her companion, when the\nfriend was gone, 'why will not the Father give to her what she asks? for\nI know what it is. It is that those whom she loves should love Him and\nserve Him; and that is His will too, for He would have all love Him, He\nwho loves all.'\n\n'Little sister,' said her companion, 'you asked me why He did not let the\nchild remain upon the earth.'\n\n'Ah, but that is different,' she cried; 'oh, it is different! When you\nsaid that the secret was between the child and the Father I knew that\nit was so; for it is just that the Father should consider us first one\nby one, and do for us what is best. But it is always best to serve Him.\nIt is best to love him; it is best to give up all the world and cleave\nto Him, and follow wherever He goes. No man can say otherwise than\nthis,--that to follow the Lord and serve Him, that is well for all, and\nalways the best!'\n\nShe spoke so hotly and hastily that her companion could find no room for\nreply. But he was in no haste; he waited till she had said what was in\nher heart. Then he replied, 'If it were even so, if the Father heard all\nprayers, and put forth His hand and forced those who were far off to come\nnear--'\n\nThe little Pilgrim looked up with horror in her face, as if he had\nblasphemed, and said, 'Forced! not so; not so!'\n\n'Yet it must be so,' he said, 'if it is against their desire and will.'\n\n'Oh, not so; not so!' she cried, 'but that He should change their\nhearts.'\n\n'Yet that too against their will,' he said.\n\nThe little Pilgrim paused upon the way; and her heart rose against her\ncompanion, who spoke things so hard to be received, and that seemed to\ndishonor the work of the Lord. But she remembered that it could not be\nso, and paused before she spoke, and looked up at him with eyes that were\nfull of wonder and almost of fear. 'Then must they perish?' she said,\n'and must her heart break?' and her voice sank low for pity and sorrow.\nThough she was herself among the blessed, yet the thorns and briers of\nthe earth caught at her garments and pierced her tender feet.\n\n'Little sister,' said the Sage, 'to us who are born of the earth it is\nhard to remember that the child belongs not first to the parents, nor the\nhusband to the wife, nor the wife to the husband, but that all are the\nchildren of the Father. And He is just; He will not neglect the little\none because of those prayers which the father and the mother pour forth\nto Him, although they cry with anguish and with tears. Nor will He break\nHis great law and violate the nature He has made, and compel His own\nchild to what it wills not and loves not. The woman is comforted in the\nbreaking of her heart; but those whom she loves, are not they also the\nchildren of the Father, who loves them more than she does? And each is to\nHim as if there were not another in the world. Nor is there any other in\nthe world,--for none can come between the Father and the child.'\n\nA smile came upon the little Pilgrim's face, yet she trembled. 'It is dim\nbefore me,' she said, 'and I cannot see clearly. Oh, if the time would\nbut hasten, that our Lord might come, and all struggles be ended, and the\ndarkness vanish away!'\n\n'He will come when all things are ready,' said the Sage; and as they went\nupon their way be showed her other sights, and the mysteries of the heart\nof man, and the great patience of our Lord.\n\nIt happened to them suddenly to perceive in their way a man returning\nhome. These are words that are sweet to all who have lived upon the earth\nand known its ways; but far, far were they from that meaning which is\nsweet. The dark hours had passed, and men had slept; and the night was\nover. The sun was rising in the sky, which was keen and clear with the\npleasure of the morning. The air was fresh with the dew, and the birds\nawaking in the trees, and the breeze so sweet that it seemed to blow from\nheaven; and to the two travellers it seemed almost in the joy of the new\nday as if the Lord had already come. But here was one who proved that it\nwas not so. He had not slept all the night, nor had night been silent to\nhim nor dark, but full of glaring light and noise and riot; his eyes were\nred with fever and weariness, and his soul was sick within him, and the\nmorning looked him in the face and upbraided him as a sister might have\nupbraided him, who loved him. And he said in his heart, as one had said\nof old, that all was vanity; that it was vain to live, and evil to have\nbeen born; that the day of death was better than the day of birth, and\nall was delusion, and love but a word, and life a lie. His footsteps on\nthe road seemed to sound all through the sleeping world; and when he\nlooked the morning in the face he was ashamed, and cursed the light. The\ntwo went after him into a silent house, where everybody slept. The light\nthat had burned for him all night was sick like a guilty thing in the eye\nof day, and all that had been prepared for his repose was ghastly to him\nin the hour of awaking, as if prepared not for sleep but for death. His\nheart was sick like the watch-light, and life flickered within him with\ndisgust and disappointment. For why had he been born, if this were\nall?--for all was vanity. The night and the day had been passed in\npleasure, and it was vanity; and now his soul loathed his pleasures, yet\nhe knew that was vanity too, and that next day he would resume them as\nbefore. All was vain,--the morning and the evening, and the spirit of man\nand the ways of human life. He looked himself in the face and loathed\nthis dream of existence, and knew that it was naught. So much as it had\ncost to be born, to be fed, and guarded and taught and cared for, and all\nfor this! He said to himself that it was better to die than to live, and\nnever to have been than to be.\n\nAs these spectators stood by with much pity and tenderness looking into\nthe weariness and sickness of this soul, there began to be enacted before\nthem a scene such as no man could have seen, which no one was aware of\nsave he who was concerned, and which even to him was not clear in its\nmeanings, but rather like a phantasmagoria, a thing of the mists; yet\nwhich was great and solemn as is the council of a king in which great\nthings are debated for the welfare of the nations. The air seemed in a\nmoment to be full of the sound of footsteps, and of something more\nsubtle, which the Sage and the Pilgrim knew to be wings; and as they\nlooked, there grew before them the semblance of a court of justice, with\naccusers and defenders; but the judge and the criminal were one. Then was\nput forth that indictment which he had been making up in his soul against\nlife and against the world; and again another indictment which was\nagainst himself. And then the advocates began their pleadings. Voices\nwere there great and eloquent, such as are familiar in the courts above,\nwhich sounded forth in the spectators' ears earnest as those who plead\nfor life and death. And these speakers declared that sin only is vanity,\nthat life is noble and love sweet, and every man made in the image of\nGod, to serve both God and man; and they set forth their reasons before\nthe judge and showed him mysteries of life and death; and they took up\nthe counter-indictment and proved to him how in all the world he had\nsought but himself, his own pleasure and profit, his own will, not the\nwill of God, nor even the good desire of humble nature, but only that\nwhich pleased his sick fancies and his self-loving heart. And they\nbesought him with a thousand arguments to return and choose again the\nbetter way. 'Arise,' they cried, 'thou, miserable, and become great;\narise, thou vain soul, and become noble. Take thy birthright, O son, and\nbehold the face of the Father.' And then there came a whispering of lower\nvoices, very penetrating and sweet, like the voices of women and\nchildren, who murmured and cried, 'O father! O brother! O love! O my\nchild!' The man who was the accused, yet who was the judge, listened; and\nhis heart burned, and a longing arose within him for the face of the\nFather and the better way. But then there came a clang and clamor of\nsound on the other side; and voices called out to him as comrade, as\nlover, as friend, and reminded him of the delights which once had been so\nsweet to him, and of the freedom he loved; and boasted the right of man\nto seek what was pleasant and what was sweet, and flouted him as a coward\nwhose aim was to save himself, and scorned him as a believer in old\nwives' tales and superstitions that men had outgrown. And their voices\nwere so vehement and full of passion that by times they mastered the\nothers, so that it was as if a tempest raged round the soul which sat in\nthe midst, and who was the offender and yet the judge of all.\n\nThe two spectators watched the conflict, as those who watch the trial\nupon which hangs a man's life. It seemed to the little Pilgrim that she\ncould not keep silent, and that there were things which she could tell\nhim which no one knew but she. She put her hand upon the arm of the Sage\nand called to him, 'Speak you, speak you! he will hear you; and I too\nwill speak, and he will not resist what we say.' But even as she said\nthis, eager and straining against her companion's control, the strangest\nthing ensued. The man who was set there to judge himself and his life; he\nwho was the criminal, yet august upon his seat, to weigh all and give the\ndecision; he before whom all those great advocates were pleading,--a haze\nstole over his eyes. He was but a man, and he was weary, and subject to\nthe sway of the little over the great, the moment over the life, which is\nthe condition of man. While yet the judgment was not given or the issue\ndecided, while still the pleadings were in his ears, in a moment his head\ndropped back upon his pillow, and he fell asleep. He slept like a child,\nas if there was no evil, nor conflict, nor danger, nor questions, more\nthan how best to rest when you are weary, in all the world. And\nstraightway all was silent in the place. Those who had been conducting\nthis great cause departed to other courts and tribunals, having done all\nthat was permitted them to do. And the man slept, and when it was noon\nwoke and remembered no more.\n\nThe Sage led the little Pilgrim forth in a great confusion, so that she\ncould not speak for wonder. But he said, 'This sleep also was from the\nFather; for the mind of the man was weary, and not able to form a\njudgment. It is adjourned until a better day.'\n\nThe little Pilgrim hung her head and cried, 'I do not understand. Will\nnot the Lord interfere? Will not the Father make it clear to him? Is he\nthe judge between good and evil? Is it all in his own hand?'\n\nThe Sage spoke softly, as if with awe. He said, 'This is the burden of\nour nature, which is not like the angels. There is none in heaven or on\nearth that can take from him what is his right and great honor among the\ncreatures of God. The Father respects that which He has made. He will\nforce no child of His. And there is no haste with Him; nor has it ever\nbeen fathomed among us how long He will wait, or if there is any end. The\nair is full of the coming and going of those who plead before the sons of\nmen; and sometimes in great misery and trouble there will be a cause won\nand a judgment recorded which makes the universe rejoice. And in\neverything at the end it is proved that our Lord's way is the best, and\nthat all can be accomplished in His name.'\n\nThe little Pilgrim went on her way in silence, knowing that the longing\nin her heart which was to compel them to come in, like that king who\nsent to gather his guests from the highways and the hedges, could not\nbe right, since it was not the Father's way, yet confused in her soul,\nand full of an eager desire to go back and wake that man and tell him\nall that had been in her heart while she watched him sitting on his\njudgment-seat. But there came recollections wafted across her mind as by\nbreezes of the past, of scenes in her earthly life when she had spoken\nwithout avail, when she had said all that was in her heart and failed,\nand done harm when she had meant to do good. And slowly it came upon her\nthat her companion spoke the truth, and that no man can save his brother;\nbut each must sit and hear the pleadings and pronounce that judgment\nwhich is for life or death. 'But oh,' she cried, 'how long and how bitter\nit is for those who love them, and must stand by and can give no aid!'\n\nThen her companion unfolded to her the patience of the Lord, and how He\nis not discouraged, nor ever weary, but opens His great assizes year by\nyear and day by day; and how the cause was argued again, as she had seen\nit, before the souls of men, sometimes again and again and over and over,\ntill the pleadings of the advocates carried conviction, and the judge\nperceived the truth and consented to it. He showed her that this was the\ngreat thing in human life, and that though it was not enough to make a\nman perfect, yet that he who sinned against his will was different from\nthe man who sinned with his will; and how in all things the choice of the\nman for good or evil was all in all. And he led her about the world so\nthat she could see how everywhere the heavenly advocates were travelling,\nentering into the secret places of the souls, and pleading with each man\nto his face. And the little Pilgrim looked on with pitying and tender\neyes, and it seemed to her that the heart of the judge, before whom that\ngreat question was debated, leaned mostly to the right, and acknowledged\nthat the way of the Lord was the best way; but either that sleep\noverpowered him and weariness, or the other voices deafened his ears, or\nsomething betrayed him that he forgot the reasons of the wise and the\njudgment of his own soul. At first it comforted her to see how something\nnobler in every man would answer to the pleadings; and then her heart\nfailed her, to perceive that notwithstanding this the judge would leave\nhis seat without a decision, and all would end in vanity. 'And oh,\nfriend,' she cried, 'what shall be done to those who see and yet\nrefuse?'--her heart being wrung by the disappointment and the failure.\nBut her companion smiled still, and he said, 'They are the children of\nthe Father. Can a woman forget her child that she should not have\ncompassion on the son of her womb? She may forget; yet will not He\nforget.' And thus they went on and on.\n\nBut time would not suffice to tell what these two pilgrims saw as they\nwandered among the ways of men. They saw poverty and misery and pain,\nwhich came of the evil which man had done upon the earth, and were his\npunishment, and could be cured by nothing but by the return of each to\nhis Father, and the giving up of all self-worship and self-seeking and\nsin. But amid all the confusion and among those who had fallen the lowest\nthey found not one who was forsaken, whose name the Father had forgotten,\nor who was not made to pause in his appointed moment, and to sit upon his\nthrone and hear the pleadings before him of the great advocates of God,\nreasoning of temperance and righteousness and judgment to come.\n\nBut once before they returned to their home, a great thing befell them;\nand they beheld that court sit, and the pleadings made, for the last time\nupon earth, which was a sight more solemn and terrible than anything they\nhad yet seen. They found themselves in a chamber where sat a man who had\nlived long and known both good and evil, and fulfilled many great\noffices, so that he was famed and honored among men. He was a man who was\nwise in all the learning of the earth, standing but a little way below\nthose who have begun the higher learning in the world beyond, and lifting\nup his head as if he would reach the stars. The travellers stood by him\nin his beautiful house, which was as the palace of wisdom, and saw him in\nthe midst of all his honors. The lamps were lit within, and the night was\nsweet without, breathing of rest and happy ease, and riches and\nknowledge, as if they would endure forever. And the man looked round on\nall he had, and all he had achieved, and everything which he possessed,\nto enjoy it. For of wisdom and of glory he had his fill, and his soul was\nyet strong to take pleasure in what was his, and he looked around him\nlike God, and said that everything was good; so that the little Pilgrim\ngazed, and wondered whether this could indeed be one of the brethren of\nthe earth, or if he was one who had wandered hither from another sphere.\n\nBut as the thought arose, she heard, and lo! the steps of the pleaders\nand the sound of their entry. They came slowly like a solemn procession,\nmore grave and awful in their looks than any she had seen, for they were\ngreat and the greatest of all, such as come forth but rarely when the\nlast word is to be said. The words they said were few; but they stood\nround him reminding him of all that had been, and of what must be, and of\nmany things which were known but to God and him alone, and calling upon\nhim yet once more before time should come to an end and life be lost. But\nthe sound of their voices in his ear was but as some great strain of\nmusic which he had heard many times and knew and heeded not. He turned to\nthe goods which he had laid up for many years, and all the knowledge he\nhad stored, and said to himself, 'Soul, take thine ease.' And to the\nheavenly advocates he smiled and replied that life was strong and wisdom\nthe master of all. Then there came a chill and a shiver over all, as if\nthe earth had been stopped in her career or the sun fallen from the sky;\nand the little Pilgrim, looking on, could see the heavenly pleaders come\nforth with bowed heads and the door of hope shut to, and a whisper which\ncrept about from sea to sea and said, 'In vain! in vain!' And as they\nwent forth from the gates an icy breath swept in, and the voice of the\nDeath-Angel saying, 'Thou fool, this night thy soul shall be required of\nthee!' The sound went through her heart as if it had been pierced by a\nsword, and she gave a cry of anguish, for she could not bear that a\nbrother should be lost. But when she looked up at the face of her\ncompanion, though it was pale with the pity and the terror of that which\nhad been thus accomplished, there was still upon it a smile; and he said,\n'Not yet; not yet. The Father loves not less, but more than ever.' 'O\nfriend,' she cried, 'will there ever come a moment when the Father will\nforget? IS there any place where He cannot go?'\n\nThen he who was wise turned towards her, and a great light came upon his\nface; and he said, 'We have searched the records, and heard all witnesses\nfrom the beginnings of time; but we have never found the boundary of His\nmercy, and there is no country known to man that is without his presence.\nAnd never has it been known that He has shut His ear to those who called\nupon Him, or forgotten one who is His. The heavenly pleaders may be\nsilenced, but never our Lord, who pleads for all; and heaven and earth\nmay forget, yet will He never forget who is the Father of all. And every\nchild of His is to Him as if there was none other in the world.'\n\nThen the little Pilgrim lifted her face and beheld that radiance which is\nover all, which is the love that lights the world, both angels and the\ngreat spheres above and the little brethren who stumble and struggle and\nweep; and in that light there was no darkness at all, but everything\nshone as in the morning, sweet yet terrible, but ever clear and fair. And\nimmediately, ere she was aware, the rough roads of the earth were left\nfar behind, and she had returned to her place, and to her peaceful state,\nand to the work which had been given her,--to receive the wanderers and\nto bid them a happy welcome as the doors opened and they entered into\ntheir inheritance. And thus her soul was satisfied, though she knew now\nnothing more than she had known always,--that the eye of the Father is\nover all, and that He can neither forget nor forsake.\n\n\n\n\nII.\n\nON THE DARK MOUNTAINS.\n\n\nWhen the little Pilgrim had been thus permitted to see the secret\nworkings of God in earthly places, and among the brethren who are still\nin the land of hope,--these being things which the angels desire to look\ninto, and which are the subject of story and of song not only in the\nlittle world below, but in the great realms above,--her heart for a long\ntime reposed and was satisfied, and asked no further question. For she\nhad seen what the dealings of the Father were in the hearts of men, and\nhow till the end came He did not cease to send His messengers to plead in\nevery heart, and to hold a court of justice that no man might be\ndeceived, but each know whither his steps were tending, and what was the\nway of wisdom. After this it was permitted to her to read in the archives\nof the heavenly country the story of one, who, neglecting all that the\nadvocates of God could say, had found himself, when the little life was\ncompleted, not upon the threshold of a better country, but in the midst\nof the Land of Darkness,--that region in which the souls of men are left\nby God to their own devices, and the Father stands aloof, and hides His\nface and calls them not, neither persuades them more. Over this story the\nlittle Pilgrim had shed many tears; for she knew well, being enlightened\nin her great simplicity by the heavenly wisdom, that it was pain and\ngrief to the Father to turn away His face; and that no one who has but\nthe little heart of a man can imagine to himself what that sorrow is in\nthe being of the great God. And a great awe came over her mind at the\nthought, which seemed well-nigh a blasphemy, that He could grieve; yet in\nher heart, being His child, she knew that it was true. And her own little\nspirit throbbed through and through with longing and with desire to help\nthose who were thus utterly lost. 'And oh!' she said, 'if I could but go!\nThere is nothing which could make a child afraid, save to see them\nsuffer. What are darkness and terror when the Father is with you? I am\nnot afraid--if I might but go!' And by reason of her often pleading, and\nof the thought that was ever in her mind, it was at last said that one of\nthose who knew might instruct her, and show her by what way alone the\ntravellers who come from that miserable land could approach and be\nadmitted on high.\n\n'I know,' she said, 'that between us and them there is a gulf fixed, and\nthat they who would come from thence cannot come, neither can any one--'\n\nBut here she stopped in great dismay, for it seemed that she had thus\nanswered her own longing and prayer.\n\nThe guide who had come for her smiled upon her and said, 'But that was\nbefore the Lord had ended His work. And now all the paths are free\nwherever there is a mountain-pass or a river-ford; the roads are all\nblessed, and they are all open, and no barriers for those who will.'\n\n'Oh,' she cried, 'dear friend, is that true for all?'\n\nHe looked away from her into the depths of the lovely air, and he\nreplied: 'Little sister, our faith is without bounds, but not our\nknowledge. I who speak to you am no more than a man. The princes and\npowers that are in high places know more than I; but if there be any\nplace where a heart can stir and cry out to the Father and He take no\nheed,--if it be only in a groan, if it be only with a sigh,--I know not\nthat place, yet many depths I know.' He put out his hand and took hers\nafter a pause; and then he said, 'There are some who are stumbling upon\nthe dark mountains. Come and see.'\n\nAs they passed along, there were many who paused to look at them, for\nhe had the mien of a great prince, a lord among men; and his face still\nbore the trace of sorrow and toil, and there was about him an awe and\nwonder which was more than could be put in words. So that those who saw\nhim understood as he went by, not who he was, nor what he had been, but\nthat he had come out of great tribulation, of sorrow beyond the sorrows\nof men. The sweetness of the heavenly country had soothed away his\ncare, and taken the cloud from his face; but he was as yet unaccustomed\nto smile,--though when he remembered and looked round him and saw that\nall was well, his countenance lightened like the morning sky, and his\neyes woke up in splendor like the sun rising. The little Pilgrim did\nnot know who her brother was, but yet gave thanks to God for him, she\nknew not why.\n\nHow far they went cannot be estimated in words, for distance matters\nlittle in that place; but at the end they came to a path which sloped a\nlittle downwards to the edge of a delightful moorland country, all\nbrilliant with the hues of the mountain flowers. It was like a flowery\nplateau high among the hills, in a region where are no frosts to check\nthe glow of the flowers, or scorch the grass. It spread far around in\nhollows and ravines and softly swelling hills, with the rush over them of\na cheerful breeze full of mountain scents and sounds; and high above them\nrose the mountain heights of the celestial world, veiled in those blue\nbreadths of distance which are heaven itself when man's fancy ascends to\nthem from the low world at their feet. All the little earth can do in\ncolor and mists, and travelling shadows fleet as the breath, and the\nsweet steadfast shining of the sun, was there, but with a ten-fold\nsplendor. They rose up into the sky, every peak and jagged rock all\ntouched with the light and the smile of God, and every little blossom on\nthe turf rejoicing in the warmth and freedom and peace. The heart of the\nlittle Pilgrim swelled, and she cried out, 'There is nothing so glorious\nas the everlasting hills. Though the valleys and the plains are sweet,\nthey are not like them. They say to us, lift up your heart!'\n\nHer guide smiled, but he did not speak. His smile was full of joy, but\ngrave, like that of a man whose thoughts are bent on other things; and he\npointed where the road wound downwards by the feet of these triumphant\nhills. She kept her eyes upon them as she moved along. Those heights rose\ninto the very sky, but bore upon them neither snow nor storm. Here and\nthere a whiteness like a film of air rounded out over a peak; and she\nrecognized that it was one of those angels who travel far and wide with\nGod's commissions, going to the other worlds that are in the firmament as\nin a sea. The softness of these films of white was like the summer clouds\nthat she used to watch in the blue of the summer sky in the little world\nwhich none of its children can cease to love; and she wondered now\nwhether it might not sometimes have been the same dear angels whose\nflight she had watched unknowing, higher than thought could soar or\nknowledge penetrate. Watching those floating heavenly messengers, and the\nheights of the great miraculous mountains rising up into the sky, the\nlittle Pilgrim ceased to think whither she was going, although she knew\nfrom the feeling of the ground under her feet that she was descending,\nstill softly, but more quickly than at first, until she was brought to\nherself by the sensation of a great wind coming in her face, cold as from\na sudden vacancy. She turned her head quickly from gazing above to what\nwas before her, and started with a cry of wonder. For below lay a great\ngulf of darkness, out of which rose at first some shadowy peaks and\nshoulders of rock, all falling away into a gloom which eyes accustomed to\nthe sunshine could not penetrate. Where she stood was the edge of the\nlight,--before her feet lay a line of shadow slowly darkening out of\ndaylight into twilight, and beyond into that measureless blackness of\nnight; and the wind in her face was like that which comes from a great\ndepth below of either sea or land,--the sweep of the current which moves\na vast atmosphere in which there is nothing to break its force. The\nlittle Pilgrim was so startled by these unexpected sensations that she\ncaught the arm of her guide in her sudden alarm, and clung to him, lest\nshe should fall into the terrible darkness and the deep abyss below.\n\n'There is nothing to fear,' he said; 'there is a way. To us who are\nabove there is no danger at all; and it is the way of life to those who\nare below.'\n\n'I see nothing,' she cried, 'save a few points of rock, and the\nprecipice,--the pit which is below. Oh, tell me what is it? Is it where\nthe fires are, and despair dwells? I did not think that was true. Let me\ngo and hide myself and not see it, for I never thought that was true.'\n\n'Look again,' said the guide.\n\nThe little Pilgrim shrank into a crevice of the rock, and uncovering her\neyes, gazed into the darkness; and because her nature was soft and timid\nthere came into her mind a momentary fear. Her heart flew to the Father's\nfootstool, and cried out to Him, not any question or prayer, but only\n'Father, Father!' and this made her stand erect, and strengthened her\neyes, so that the gloom even of hell could no more make her afraid. Her\nguide stood beside with a steadfast countenance, which was grave, yet\nfull of a solemn light. And then all at once he lifted up his voice,\nwhich was sonorous and sweet like the sound of an organ, and uttered a\nshout so great and resounding that it seemed to come back in echoes from\nevery hollow and hill. What he said the little Pilgrim could not\nunderstand; but when the echoes had died away and silence followed,\nsomething came up through the gloom,--a sound that was far, far away, and\nfaint in the long distance; a voice that sounded no more than an echo.\nWhen he who had called out heard it, he turned to the little Pilgrim with\neyes that were liquid with love and pity; 'Listen,' he said, 'there is\nsome one on the way.'\n\n'Can we help them?' cried the little Pilgrim; her heart bounded forward\nlike a bird. She had no fear. The darkness and the horrible way seemed as\nnothing to her. She stretched out her arms as if she would have seized\nthe traveller and dragged him up into the light.\n\nHe who was by her side shook his head, but with a smile. 'We can but\nwait,' he said. 'It is forbidden that any one should help; for this is\ntoo terrible and strange to be touched even by the hands of angels. It is\nlike nothing that you know.'\n\n'I have been taught many things,' said the little Pilgrim, humbly. 'I\nhave been taken back to the dear earth, where I saw the judgment-seat,\nand the pleaders who spoke, and the man who was the judge, and how each\nis judge for himself.'\n\n'You have seen the place of hope,' said her guide, 'where the Father is\nand the Son, and where no man is left to his own ways. But there is\nanother country, where there is no voice either from God or from good\nspirits, and where those who have refused are left to do as seems good in\ntheir own eyes.'\n\n'I have read,' said the little Pilgrim, with a sob, 'of one who went from\ncity to city and found no rest.'\n\nHer guide bowed his head very gravely in assent. 'They go from place to\nplace,' he said, 'if haply they might find one in which it is possible to\nlive. Whether it is order or whether it is license, it is according to\ntheir own will. They try all things, ever looking for something which the\nsoul may endure. And new cities are founded from time to time, and a new\nendeavor ever and ever to live, only to live. For even when happiness\nfails and content, and work is vanity and effort is naught, it is\nsomething if a man can but endure to live.'\n\nThe little Pilgrim looked at him with wistful eyes, for what he said was\nbeyond her understanding. 'For us,' she said, 'life is nothing but joy.\nOh, brother, is there then condemnation?'\n\n'It is no condemnation; it is what they have chosen,--it is to follow\ntheir own way. There is no longer any one to interfere. The pleaders are\nall silent; there is no voice in the heart. The Father hinders them not,\nnor helps them, but leaves them.' He shivered as if with cold; and the\nlittle Pilgrim felt that there breathed from the depths of darkness at\ntheir feet an icy wind which touched her hands and feet and chilled her\nheart. She shivered too, and drew close to the rock for shelter, and\ngazed at the awful cliffs rising out of the gloom, and the paths that\ndisappeared at her feet, leading down, down into that abyss; and her\nheart failed within her to think that below there were souls that\nsuffered, and that the Father and the Son were not there. He, the\nAll-loving, the All-present,--how could it be that He was not there?\n\n'It is a mystery,' said the man who was her guide, and who answered to\nher thought. 'When I set my foot upon this blessed land I knew that\nthere, even there, He is. But in that country His face is hidden, and\neven to name His name is anguish,--for then only do men understand what\nhas befallen them, who can say that name no more.'\n\n'That is death indeed,' she cried; and the wind came up silent with a\nwild breath that was more awful than the shriek of a storm; for it was\nlike the stifled utterances of all those miserable ones who have no voice\nto call upon God, and know not where He is nor how to pronounce His name.\n\n'Ah,' said he, 'if we could have known what death was! We had believed in\ndeath in the time of all great illusions, in the time of the gentle life,\nin the day of hope. But in the land of darkness there are no illusions;\nand every man knows that though he should fling himself into the furnace\nof the gold, or be cut to pieces by the knives, or trampled under the\ndancers' feet, yet that it will be but a little more pain, and that death\nis not, nor any escape that way.'\n\n'Oh, brother!' she cried, 'you have been there!'\n\nHe turned and looked upon her; and she read as in a book things which\ntongue of man cannot say,--the anguish and the rapture, the\nunforgotten pang of the lost, the joy of one who has been delivered\nafter hope was gone.\n\n'I have been there; and now I stand in the light, and have seen the face\nof the Lord, and can speak His blessed name.' And with that he burst\nforth into a great melodious cry, which was not like that which he had\nsent into the dark depths below, but mounted up like the sounding of\nsilver trumpets and all joyful music, giving a voice to the sweet air and\nthe fresh winds which blew about the hills of God. But the words he said\nwere not comprehensible to his companion, for they were in the sweet\ntongue which is between the Father and His child, and known to none but\nto them alone. Yet only to hear the sound was enough to transport all who\nlistened, and to make them know what joy is and peace. The little\nPilgrim wept for happiness to hear her brother's voice; but in the midst\nof it her ear was caught by another sound,--a faint cry which tingled up\nfrom the darkness like a note of a muffled bell,--and she turned from the\njoy and the light, and flung out her arms and her little voice towards\nhim who was stumbling upon the dark mountains. And 'Come,' she cried,\n'come, come!' forgetting all things save that one was there in the\ndarkness, while here was light and peace.\n\n'It is nearer,' said her guide, hearing, even in the midst of his triumph\nsong, that faint and distant cry; and he took her hand and drew her back,\nfor she was upon the edge of the precipice, gazing into the black depths,\nwhich revealed nothing save the needles of the awful rocks and sheer\ndescents below. 'The moment will come,' he said, 'when we can help; but\nit is not yet.'\n\nHer heart was in the depths with him who was coming, whom she knew not\nsave that he was coming, toiling upwards towards the light; and it seemed\nto her that she could not contain herself, nor wait till he should\nappear, nor draw back from the edge, where she might hold out her hands\nto him and save him some single step, if no more. But presently her heart\nreturned to her brother who stood by her side, and who was delivered,\nand with whom it was meet that all should rejoice, since he had fought\nand conquered, and reached the land of light. 'Oh,' she said, 'it is long\nto wait while he is still upon these dark mountains. Tell me how it came\nto you to find the way.'\n\nHe turned to her with a smile, though his ear too was intent, and his\nheart fixed upon the traveller in the darkness, and began to tell her his\ntale to beguile the time of waiting, and to hold within bounds the pity\nthat filled her heart. He told her that he was one of many who came from\nthe pleasant earth together, out of many countries and tongues; and how\nthey had gone here and there each man to a different city; and how they\nhad crossed each other's paths coming and going, yet never found rest for\ntheir feet; and how there was a little relief in every change, and one\nsought that which another left; and how they wandered round and round\nover all the vast and endless plain, until at length in revolt from every\nother way, they had chosen a spot upon the slope of a hill, and built\nthere a new city, if perhaps something better might be found there; and\nhow it had been built with towers and high walls, and great gates to shut\nit in, so that no stranger should find entrance; and how every house was\na palace, with statues of marble, and pillars so precious with beautiful\nwork, and arches so lofty and so fair that they were better than had they\nbeen made of gold,--yet gold was not wanting, nor diamond stones that\nshone like stars, and everything more beautiful and stately than heart\ncould conceive.\n\n'And while we built and labored,' he said, 'our hearts were a little\nappeased. And it was called the city of Art, and all was perfect in it,\nso that nothing had ever been seen to compare with it for beauty; and we\nwalked upon the battlements and looked over the plain and viewed the\ndwellers there, who were not as we. And we went on to fill every room and\nevery hall with carved work in stone and beaten gold, and pictures and\nwoven tissues that were like the sun-gleams and the rainbows of the\npleasant earth. And crowds came around envying us and seeking to enter;\nbut we closed our gates and drove them away. And it was said among us\nthat life would now become as of old, and everything would go well with\nus as in the happy days.'\n\nThe little Pilgrim looked up into his face, and for pity of his pain\n(though it was past) almost wished that _that_ could have come true.\n\n'But when the work was done,' he said, and for a moment no more.\n\n'Oh, brother! when the work was done?' 'You do not know what it is,' he\nsaid, 'to be ten times more powerful and strong, to want no rest, to have\nfire in your veins, to have the craving in your heart above everything\nthat is known to man. When the work was done, we glared upon each other\nwith hungry eyes, and each man wished to thrust forth his neighbor and\npossess all to himself. And then we ceased to take pleasure in it,\nnotwithstanding that it was beautiful; and there were some who would have\nbeaten down the walls and built them anew; and some would have torn up\nthe silver and gold, and tossed out the fair statues and the adornments\nin scorn and rage to the meaner multitudes below. And we who were the\nworkers began to contend one against another to satisfy the gnawings of\nthe rage that was in our hearts. For we had deceived ourselves, thinking\nonce more that all would be well; while all the time nothing was changed,\nand we were but as the miserable ones that rushed from place to place.'\n\nThough all this wretchedness was over and past, it was so terrible to\nthink of that he paused and was silent awhile. And the little Pilgrim\nput her hand upon his arm in her great pity, to soothe him, and almost\nforgot that there was another traveller not yet delivered upon the way.\nBut suddenly at that moment there came up through the depths the sound of\na fall, as if the rocks had crashed from a hundred peaks, yet all muffled\nby the great distance, and echoing all around in faint echoes, and\nrumblings as in the bosom of the earth; and mingled with them were\nfar-off cries, so faint and distant that human ears could not have heard\nthem, like the cries of lost children, or creatures wavering and straying\nin the midst of the boundless night. This time she who was watching upon\nthe edge of the gloom would have flung herself forward altogether into\nit, had not her companion again restrained her. 'One has stumbled upon\nthe mountains; but listen, listen, little sister, for the voices are\nmany,' he said. 'It is not one who comes, but many; and though he falls\nhe will rise again.' And once more he shouted aloud, bending down against\nthe rocks, so that they caught his voice; and the sweet air from the\nskies came behind him in a great gust like a summer storm, and carried it\ninto all the echoing hollows of the hills. And the little Pilgrim knew\nthat he shouted to all who came to take courage and not to fear. And\nthis time there rose upwards many faint and wavering sounds that did not\nstir the air, but made it tingle with a vibration of the great distance\nand the unknown depths; and then again all was still. They stood for a\ntime intent upon the great silence and darkness which swept up all sight\nand sound, and then the little Pilgrim once more turned her eyes towards\nher companion, and he began again his wonderful tale.\n\n'He who had been the first to found the city, and who was the most wise\nof any, though the rage was in him like all the rest, and the\ndisappointment and the anguish, yet would not yield. And he called upon\nus for another trial, to make a picture which should be the greatest that\never was painted; and each one of us, small or great, who had been of\nthat art in the dear life, took share in the rivalry and the emulation,\nso that on every side there was a fury and a rush, each man with his band\nof supporters about him struggling and swearing that his was the best.\nNot that they loved the work or the beauty of the work, but to keep down\nthe gnawing in their hearts, and to have something for which they could\nstill fight and storm, and for a little forget.'\n\n'I was one who had been among the highest.' He spoke not with pride, but\nin a low and deep voice which went to the heart of the listener, and\nbrought the tears to her eyes. It was not like that of the painter in the\nheavenly city, who rejoiced and was glad in his work, though he was but\nas a humble workman, serving those who were more great. But this man had\nthe sorrow of greatness in him, and the wonder of those who can do much,\nto find how little they can do. 'My veins,' he said, 'were filled with\nfire, and my heart with the rage of a great desire to be first, as I had\nbeen first in the days of the gentle life. And I made my plan to be\ngreater than all the rest, to paint a vast picture like the world, filled\nwith all the glories of life. In a moment I had conceived what I should\ndo, for my strength was as that of a hundred men; and none of us could\nrest or breathe till it was accomplished, but flung ourselves upon this\nnew thing as upon water in the desert. Oh, my little sister, how can I\ntell you; what words can show forth this wonderful thing? I stood before\nmy great canvas with all those who were of my faction pressing upon me,\nnoting every touch I made, shouting, and saying, \"He will win! he will\nwin!\" when lo! there came a mystery and a wonder into that place. I had\narranged men and women before me according to all the devices of art, to\nserve as my models, that nature might be in my picture, and life; but\nwhen I looked I saw them not, for between them and me had come a Face.'\n\nThe eyes of the little Pilgrim dropped with tears. She held out her hands\ntowards him with a sympathy which no words could say.\n\n'Often had I painted that Face in the other life, sometimes with awe and\nlove, sometimes with scorn,--for hire and for bread, and for pride and\nfor fame. It is pale with suffering, yet smiles; the eyes have tears in\nthem, yet light below, and all that is there is full of tenderness and of\nlove. There is a crown upon the brow, but it is made of thorns. It came\nbefore me suddenly, while I stood there, with the men shouting close to\nmy ear urging me on, and fierce fury in my heart, and the rage to be\nfirst, and to forget. Where my models were, there it came. I could not\nsee them, nor my groups that I had planned, nor anything but that Face. I\ncalled out to my men. \"Who has done this?\" but they heard me not, nor\nunderstood me, for to them there was nothing there save the figures I had\nset,--a living picture all ready for the painter's hand.\n\n'I could not bear it, the sight of that Face. I flung my tools away; I\ncovered my eyes with my hands. But those who were about me pressed on me\nand threatened; they pulled my hands from my eyes. \"Coward!\" they cried,\nand \"Traitor, to leave us in the lurch! Now will the other side win and\nwe be shamed. Rather tear him limb from limb, fling him from the walls!\"\nThe crowd came round me like an angry sea; they forced my pencils back\ninto my hands. \"Work,\" they cried, \"or we will tear you limb from limb.\"\nFor though they were upon my side, it was for rivalry, and not out of any\nlove for me.' He paused for a moment, for his heart was yet full of the\nremembrance, and of joy that it was past.\n\n'I looked again,' he said, 'and still it was there. O Face divine,--the\neyes all wet with pity, the lips all quivering with love! And neither\npity nor love belonged to that place, nor any succor, nor the touch of a\nbrother, nor the voice of a friend. \"Paint,\" they cried, \"or we will tear\nyou limb from limb!\" and fire came into my heart. I pushed them from me\non every side with the strength of a giant. And then I flung it on the\ncanvas, crying I know not what,--not to them, but to Him. Shrink not from\nme, little sister, for I blasphemed. I called Him Impostor, Deceiver,\nGalilean; and still with all my might, with all the fury of my soul, I\nset Him there for every man to see, not knowing what I did. Everything\nfaded from me but that Face; I saw it alone. The crowd came round me with\nshouts and threats to drag me away but I took no heed. They were\nsilenced, and fled and left me alone, but I knew nothing; nor when they\ncame back with others and seized me, and flung me forth from the gates,\nwas I aware what I had done. They cast me out and left me upon the wild\nwithout a shelter, without a companion, storming and raving at them as\nthey did at me. They dashed the great gates behind me with a clang, and\nshut me out. And I turned and defied them, and cursed them as they cursed\nme, not knowing what I had done.'\n\n'Oh, brother!' murmured the little Pilgrim, kneeling, as if she had\naccompanied him all the way with her prayers, but could not now say more.\n\n'Then I saw again,' he went on, not hearing her in the great force of\nthat passion and wonder which was still in his mind, 'that vision in the\nair. Wherever I turned, it was there,--His eyes wet with pity, His\ncountenance shining with love. Whence came He? What did He in that place,\nwhere love is not, where pity comes not?'\n\n'Friend,' she cried, 'to seek you there!'\n\nHer companion bowed his head in deep humbleness and joy. And again he\nlifted his great voice and intoned his song of praise. The little Pilgrim\nunderstood it, but by fragments,--a line that was more simple that came\nhere and there. And it praised the Lord that where the face of the Father\nwas hidden; and where love was not, nor compassion, nor brother had pity\non brother, nor friend knew the face of friend; and all succor was\nstayed, and every help forbidden,--yet still in the depths of the\ndarkness and in the heart of the silence, He who could not forget nor\nforsake was there. The voice of the singer was like that of one of the\ngreat angels, and many of the inhabitants of the blessed country began to\nappear, gathering in crowds to hear this great music, as the little\nsister thought; and she herself listened with all her heart, wondering\nand seeing on the faces of those dear friends whom she did not know an\nexpectation and a hope which were strange to her, though she could always\nunderstand their love and their joy.\n\nBut in the middle of this great song there came again another sound to\nher ear,--a sound which pierced through the music like lightning through\nthe sky, though it was but the cry of one distraught and fainting; a cry\nout of the depths not even seeking help, a cry of distress too terrible\nto be borne. Though it was scarcely louder than a sigh, she heard it\nthrough all the music, and turned and flew to the edge of the precipice\nwhence it came. And immediately the darkness seemed to move as with a\npulse in a great throb, and something came through the wind with a rush,\nas if part of the mountain had fallen--and lo! at her feet lay one who\nhad flung himself forward, his arms stretched out, his face to the\nground, as if he had seized and grasped in an agony the very soil. He lay\nthere, half in the light and half in the shadow, gripping the rocks with\nhis hands, burrowing into the cool herbage above and the mountain\nflowers; clinging, catching hold, despairing, yet seizing everything he\ncould grasp,--the tender grass, the rolling stones. The little Pilgrim\nflung herself down upon her knees by his side, and grasped his arm to\nhelp, and cried aloud for aid; and the song of the singer ceased, and\nthere was silence for a moment, so that the breath of the fugitive could\nbe heard panting, and his strong struggle to drag himself altogether out\nof that abyss of darkness below. She thought of nothing, nor heard nor\nsaw anything but the strain of that last effort which seemed to shake\nthe very mountains; until suddenly there seemed to rise all around the\nhum and murmur as of a great multitude, and looking up, she saw every\nlittle hill and hollow, and the glorious plain beyond as far as eye could\nsee, crowded with countless throngs; and on the high peaks above, in the\nfull shining of the sun, came bands of angels, and of those great beings\nwho are more mighty than men. And the eyes of all were fixed upon the man\nwho lay as one dead upon the ground, and from the lips of all came a low\nmurmur of rapture and delight, that spread like the hum of the bees, like\nthe cooing of the doves, like the voice of a mother over her child; and\nthe same sound came to her own lips unawares, and she murmured 'welcome'\nand 'brother' and 'friend,' not knowing what she said; and looking to the\nothers, whispered, 'Hush! for he is weak'--and all of them answered with\ntears, with 'hush' and 'welcome' and 'friend' and 'brother' and\n'beloved,' and stood smiling and weeping for joy. And presently there\ncame softly into the blessed air the ringing of the great silver bells,\nwhich sound only for victory and great happiness and gain. And there was\njoy in heaven; and every world was stirred. And throughout the firmament,\nand among all the lords and princes of life, it was known that the\nimpossible had become true, and the name of the Lord had proved\nenough, and love had conquered even despair.\n\n'Hush!' she said, 'for he is weak.' And because it was her blessed\nservice to receive those who had newly arrived in that heavenly country,\nand to soothe and help them so that like newborn children they should be\nable to endure and understand the joy, she knelt by him on the ground\nand tried to rouse him, though with trembling, for never before had she\nstood by one who was newly come out of the land of despair. 'Let the sun\ncome upon him,' she said; 'let him feel the brightness of the\nlight,'--and with her soft hands she drew him out of the shade of the\ntwilight to where the brightness of the day fell like a smile upon the\nflowers. And then at last he stirred, and turned round and opened his\neyes, for the genial warmth had reached him. But his eyes were heavy and\ndazzled with the light; and he looked round him as if confused from\nbeneath his heavy eyelids. 'And where am I?' he said; 'and who are you?'\n'Oh, brother!' said the little Pilgrim, and told him in his ear the name\nof that heavenly place, and many comforting and joyful things. But he\nunderstood her not, and still gazed about him with dazzled eyes, for his\nface was still towards the darkness, and fear was upon him lest this\nplace should prove no more than a delusion, and the darkness return, and\nthe anguish and pain.\n\nThen he who had been her guide, and told her his tale, came forward and\nstood by the side of the newly come. And 'Brother,' he said, 'look upon\nme, for you know me, and know from whence I come.'\n\nThe stranger looked dimly with his heavy eyes. And he replied, 'It is as\na dream that I know you, and know from whence you came. And the dream is\nsweet to lie here, and think that I am at peace. Deceive me not, oh!\ndeceive me not with dreams that are sweet; but let me go upon my way and\nfind the end, if there is any end, or if any good can be.'\n\n'What shall we do,' cried the little Pilgrim, 'to persuade him that he\nhas arrived and is safe, and dreams no more?'\n\nAnd they stood round him wondering, and troubled to find how little they\ncould do for him, and that the light entered so slowly into his soul. And\nhe lay on the bank like one left for death, so weary and so worn with\nall the horrors of the way that his heart was faint within him, and peace\nitself seemed to him but an illusion. He lay silent while they watched\nand waited, then turned himself upon the grass, which was as soft to the\nweary wayfarer as angels' wings; and then the sunshine caught his eye, as\nif he had been a newborn babe awakened to the light. He put out his hand\nto it, and touched the ground that was golden with those heavenly rays,\nand gathered himself up till he felt it upon his face, and opened wide\nhis dazzled eyes, then shaded them with trembling hands, and said to\nhimself, 'It is the sun; it is the sun!' But still he did not dare to\nbelieve that the danger and the toil were over, nor could he listen, nor\nunderstand what the brethren said. While they all stood around and\nwatched and waited, wondering each how the new-comer should be satisfied,\nthere suddenly arose a sound with which they were all acquainted,--the\nsound of One approaching. The faces of the blessed were all around like\nthe stars in the sky,--multitudes whom none could count or reckon; but He\nwho came was seen of none, save him to whom He came. The weary man rose\nup with a great cry, then fell again upon his knees, and flung his arms\nwide in the wonder and the joy. And 'Lord,' he cried, 'was it Thou?\nLord, it was Thou! Thine was the face. And Thou hast brought me here!'\n\nThe watchers knew not what the other voice said, for what is said to each\nnew-comer is the secret of the Lord. But when they looked again, the man\nstood upright upon his feet, and his face was full of light; and though\nhe trembled with weakness and with weariness, and with exceeding joy, yet\nthe confusion and the fear were gone from him. And he had no longer any\nsuspicion of them, as if they might betray him, but held out his\ntrembling hands and cried, 'Friends,--you are friends? and you spoke to\nme and called me brother? And am I here? And am I here?' For to name the\nname of that blessed country was not needful any longer, now that he had\nseen the Lord.\n\nThen a great band and guard of honor, of angels and principalities and\npowers, surrounded him, and led him away to the holy city, and to the\npresence of the Father, who had permitted and had not forbidden what the\nLord had done. And all the companies of the blessed followed after with\nwonder and gladness and triumph, because the great love of the Lord had\ndrawn out of the darkness even those who were beyond hope.\n\nThe little Pilgrim saw them depart from her with love and joy, and sat\ndown upon the rocky edge and sang her own song of peace; for her fear was\ngone, and she was ready to do her service there upon the verge of the\nprecipice as among the flowers and the sunshine, where her own place was.\n'From the depths,' she said, 'they come, they come!--from the land of\ndarkness, where no love is. For Thy love, O Lord, is more than the\ndarkness and the depths. And where hope is not, there Thy pity goes.' She\nsat and sang to herself like a happy child, for her heart had fathomed\nthe awful gloom which baffles angels and men; and she had learned that\nthough hope comes to an end and light fails, and the feet of the\nambassadors are stayed on the mountains, and the voice of the pleaders is\nsilenced, and darkness swallows up the world, yet Love never fails. As\nshe sang, the pity in her heart grew so strong, and her desire to help\nthe lost, that she rose up and stepped forth into the awful gloom, and\nhad it been permitted, in her gentleness and weakness would have gone\nforth to the deeps and had no fear.\n\nThe ground gave way under her feet, so dreadful was the precipice; but\nthough her heart beat with the horror of it, and the whirl of the descent\nand the darkness which blinded her eyes, yet had she no hurt. And when\nher foot touched the rock, and that sinking sense of emptiness and\nvacancy ceased, she looked around and saw the path by which that\ntraveller had come. For when the eyes are used to the darkness, the\nhorror of the gloom was no longer like a solid thing, but moved into\nshades of darker and less dark, so that she saw where the rocks stood,\nand how they sank with edges that cut like swords down and ever down into\nthe abysses; and how here a deep ravine was rent between them, and there\nwere breaks and scars as though some one had caught the jagged points\nwith wounded hand or foot, struggling up the perpendicular surface\ntowards the little ray of light, like a tiny star which shone as on\nimmeasurable heights to show where life was. As she travelled deeper and\ndeeper, it was a wonder to see how far that little ray penetrated down\nand down through gulfs of darkness, blue and cold like the shimmer of a\ndiamond, and even when it could be seen no more, sent yet a shadowy\nrefraction, a line of something less black than the darkness, a\nlightening amid the gloom, a something indefinable which was hope. The\nrocks were more cruel than imagination could conceive,--sometimes pointed\nand sharp like knives, sometimes smooth and upright as a wall with no\nhold for the climber, sometimes moving under the touch, with stones that\nrolled and crushed the bleeding feet; and though the solid masses were\ndistinguishable from the lighter darkness of the air, yet it could only\nbe in groping that the travellers by that way could find where any\nfoothold was. The traveller who came from above, and who had the\nprivilege of her happiness, sank down as if borne on wings, yet needed\nall her courage not to be afraid of the awful rocks that rose all above\nand around her, perpendicular in the gloom. And the great blast of an icy\nwind swept upwards like something flying upon great wings, so tremendous\nwas the force of it, whirling from the depths below, sucked upwards by\nthe very warmth of the life above; so that the little Pilgrim herself\ncaught at the rocks that she might not be swept again towards the top, or\ndashed against the stony pinnacles that stood up on every side. She was\nglad when she found a little platform under her feet for a moment where\nshe could rest, and also because she had come, not from curiosity to see\nthat gulf, but with the hope and desire to meet some one to whom she\ncould be of a little comfort or help in the terrors of the way.\n\nWhile she stood for a moment to get her breath, she became sensible that\nsome living thing was near; and putting out her hand she felt that there\nwas round her something that was like a bastion upon a fortified wall,\nand immediately a hand touched hers, and a soft voice said, 'Sister, fear\nnot! for this is the watch-tower, and I am one of those who keep the\nway.' She had started and trembled indeed, not that she feared, but\nbecause the delicate fabric of her being was such that every movement of\nthe wind, and even those that were instinctive and belonged to the habits\nof another life, betrayed themselves in her. And 'Oh,' she said, 'I knew\nnot that there were any watch-towers, or any one to help, but came\nbecause my heart called me, if perhaps I might hold out my hand in the\ndarkness, and be of use where there was no light.'\n\n'Come and stand by me,' said the watcher; and the little Pilgrim saw that\nthere was a whiteness near to her, out of which slowly shaped the face of\na fair and tender woman, whom she knew not, but loved. And though they\ncould scarcely see each other, yet they knew each other for sisters, and\nkissed and took comfort together, holding each other's hands in the midst\nof the awful gloom. And the little Pilgrim questioned in low and hushed\ntones, 'Is it to help that you are here?'\n\n'To help when that may be; but rather to watch, and to send the news and\nmake it known that one is coming, that the bells of joy may be sounded,\nand all the blessed may rejoice.'\n\n'Oh,' said the little Pilgrim, 'tell me your name, that I may do you\nhonor,--for to gain such high promotion can be given only to the great\nwho are made perfect, and to those who love most.'\n\n'I am not great,' said the watcher; 'but the Lord, who considers all, has\nplaced me here, that I may be the first to see when one comes who is in\nthe dark places below. And also because there are some who say that love\nis idolatry, and that the Father will not have us long for our own,\ntherefore am I permitted to wait and watch and think the time not long\nfor the love I bear him. For he is mine; and when he comes I will ascend\nwith him to the dear country of the light, and some other who loves\nenough will be promoted in my place.'\n\n'I am not worthy,' said the little Pilgrim. 'It is a great promotion;\nbut oh, that we might be permitted to help, to put out a hand, or to\nclear the way!'\n\n'Nay, my little sister,' said the watcher, 'but patience must have its\nperfect work; and for those who are coming help is secret. They must not\nsee it nor know it, for the land of darkness is beyond hope. The Father\nwill not force the will of any creature He has made, for He respects us\nin our nature, which is His image. And when a man will not, and will not\ntill the day is over, what can be done for him? He is left to his will,\nand is permitted to do it as it seems good in his eyes. A man's will is\ngreat, for it is the gift of God. But the Lord, who cannot rest while one\nis miserable, still goes secretly to them, for His heart yearns after\nthem. And by times they will see His face, or some thought of old will\nseize upon them. And some will say, \"To perish upon the dark mountains is\nbetter than to live here.\" And I have seen,' said the watcher, 'that the\nLord will go with them all the way--but secretly, so that they cannot see\nHim. And though it grieves His heart not to help, yet will He not,--for\nthey have become the creatures of their own will, and by that must they\nattain.' She put out her hand to the new-comer and drew her to the side\nof the rocky wall, so that they felt the sweep of the wind in their\nfaces; but were not driven before it. 'And come,' she said, 'for two of\nus together will be like a great light to those who are in the darkness.\nThey will see us like a lamp, and it will cheer them, though they know\nnot why we are here. Listen!' she cried. And the little Pilgrim, holding\nfast the hand of the watcher, listened and looked down upon the awful\nway; and underneath the sweep of the icy wind was a small sharp sound as\nof a stone rolling or a needle of rock that broke and fell, like the\nsounds that are in a wood when some creature moves, though too far off\nfor footstep to sound. 'Listen!' said the watcher; and her face so shone\nwith joy that the little Pilgrim saw it clearly, like the shining of the\nmorning in the midst of the darkness. 'He comes!'\n\n'Oh, sister!' she cried, 'is it he whom you love above all the rest?\nIs it he?'\n\nThe watcher smiled and said, 'If it is not he, yet is it a brother; if\nit is not he now, yet his time will come. And in every one who passes, I\nhope to see his face; and the more that come, the more certain it is\nthat he will come. And the time seems not long for the love I bear him.\nAnd it is for this that the Lord has so considered me. Listen! for some\none comes.'\n\nAnd there came to these watchers the strangest sight; for there flew past\nthem while they gazed a man who seemed to be carried upon the sweep of\nthe wind. In the midst of the darkness they could see the faint white in\nhis face, with eyes of flame and lips set firm, whirled forward upon the\nwind, which would have dashed him against the rocks; but as he whirled\npast, he caught with his hand the needles of the opposite peaks, and was\nswung high over a great chasm, and landed upon a higher height, high over\ntheir heads. And for a moment they could hear, like a pulsation through\nthe depths, the hard panting of his breath; then, with scarcely a moment\nfor rest, they heard the sound of his progress onward, as if he did\nbattle with the mountain, and his own swiftness carried him like another\nwind. It had taken less than a moment to sweep him past, quicker than the\nflight of a bird, as sudden as a lightning flash. The little Pilgrim\nfollowed him with her eager ears, wondering if he would leap thus into\nthe country of light and take heaven by storm, or whether he would fall\nupon the heavenly hills, and lie prostrate in weariness and exhaustion,\nlike him to whom she had ministered. She followed him with her ears, for\nthe sound of his progress was with crashing of rocks and a swift movement\nin the air; but she was called back by the pressure of the hand of the\nwatcher, who did not, like the little Pilgrim, follow him who thus rushed\nthrough space as far as there was sound or sight of him, but had turned\nagain to the lower side, and was gazing once more, and listening for the\nlittle noises in the gulf below. The little Pilgrim remembered her\nfriend's hope, and said softly, 'It was not he?' And the watcher clasped\nher hand again, and answered, 'It was a dear brother. I have sounded the\nsilver bells for him; and soon we shall hear them answering from the\nheights above. And another time it will be he.' And they kissed each\nother because they understood each the other in her heart.\n\nAnd then they talked together of the old life when all things began; and\nof the wonderful things they had learned concerning the love of the\nFather and the Son; and how all the world was held by them and\npenetrated through and through by threads of love, so that it could\nnever fail. And the darkness seemed light round them; and they forgot\nfor a little that the wind was not as a summer breeze. Then once more\nthe hand of the watcher pressed that of her companion, and bade her hush\nand listen; and they sat together holding their breath, straining their\nears. Then heard they faint sounds which were very different from those\nmade by him who had been driven past them like an arrow from a\nbow,--first as of something falling, but very far away, and a faint\nsound as of a foot which slipped. The listeners did not say a word to\neach other; they sat still and listened, scarcely drawing their breath.\nThe darkness had no voice; it could not be but that some traveller was\nthere, though hidden deep, deep in the gloom, only betrayed by the\nsound. There was a long pause, and the watcher held fast the little\nPilgrim's hand, and betrayed to her the longing in her heart; for though\nshe was already blessed beyond all blessedness known on earth, yet had\nshe not forgotten the love that had begun on earth, but was forevermore.\nShe murmured to herself and said, 'If it is not he, it is a brother; and\nthe more that come, the more sure it is that he will come. Little\nsister, is there one for whom you watch?'\n\n'There is no one,' the Pilgrim said,--'but all.'\n\n'And so care I for all,' cried the watcher; and she drew her companion\nwith her to the edge of the abyss, and they sat down upon it low among\nthe rocks to escape the rushing of the wind. And they sang together a\nsoft song; 'For if he should hear us,' she said, 'it may give him\ncourage.' And there they sat and sang; and the white of their garments\nand of their heavenly faces showed like a light in the deep gloom, so\nthat he who was toiling upwards might see that speck above him, and be\nencouraged to continue upon his way.\n\nSometimes he fell, and they could hear the moan he made,--for every sound\ncame upwards, however small and faint it might be,--and sometimes dragged\nhimself along, so that they heard his movement up some shelf of rock. And\nas the Pilgrim looked, she saw other and other dim whitenesses along the\nravines of the dark mountains, and knew that she was not the only one,\nbut that many had come to watch and look for the coming of those who had\nbeen lost.\n\nTime was as nothing to these heavenly watchers; but they knew how long\nand terrible were the moments to those upon the way. Sometimes there\nwould be silence like the silence of long years; and fear came upon them\nthat the wayfarer had turned back, or that he had fallen, and lay\nsuffering at the bottom of some gulf, or had been swept by the wind upon\nsome icy peak and dashed against the rocks. Then anon, while they\nlistened and held their breath, a little sound would strike again into\nthe silence; bringing back hope; and again and again all would be still.\nThe little Pilgrim held her companion's hand; and the thought went\nthrough her mind that were she watching for one whom she loved above the\nrest, her heart would fail. But the watcher answered her as if she had\nspoken, and said, 'Oh, no, oh, no; for if it is not he, it is a brother;\nand the Lord give them joy!' But they sang no more, their hearts being\nfaint with suspense and with eagerness to hear every sound.\n\nThen in the great chill of the silence, suddenly, and not far off, came\nthe sound of one who spoke. He murmured to himself and said, 'Who can\ncontinue on this terrible way? The night is black like hell, and there\ncomes no morning. It was better in the land of darkness, for still we\ncould see the face of man, though not God.' The muffled voice shook at\nthat word, and then was still suddenly, as though it had been a flame and\nthe wind had blown it out. And for a moment there was silence; until\nsuddenly it broke forth once more,--\n\n'What is this that has come to me that I can say the name of God? It\ntortures no longer, it is as balm. But He is far off and hears nothing.\nHe called us and we answered not. Now it is we who call, and He will not\nhear. I will lie down and die. It cannot be that a man must live and live\nforever in pain and anguish. Here will I lie, and it will end. O Thou\nwhose face I have seen in the night, make it possible for a man to die!'\n\nThe watcher loosed herself from her companion's clasp, and stood upright\nupon the edge of the cliff, clasping her hands together and saying low,\nas to herself, 'Father, Father!' as one who cannot refrain from that\nappeal, but who knows the Father loves best, and that to intercede is\nvain; and longing was in her face and joy. For it was he, and she knew\nthat he could not now fail, but would reach to the celestial country and\nto the shining of the sun; yet that it was not hers to help him, nor any\nman's, nor angel's. But the little Pilgrim was ignorant, not having been\ntaught; and she committed herself to those depths, though she feared\nthem, and though she knew not what she could do. And once more the dense\nair closed over her, and the vacancy swallowed her up, and when she\nreached the rocks below, there lay something at her feet which she felt\nto be a man; but she could not see him nor touch him, and when she tried\nto speak, her voice died away in her throat and made no sound. Whether it\nwas the wind that caught it and swept it quite away, or that the well of\nthat depth profound sucked every note upwards, or whether because it was\nnot permitted that either man or angel should come out of their sphere,\nor help be given which was forbidden, the little Pilgrim knew not,--for\nnever had it been said to her that she should stand aside where need was.\nAnd surprise which was stronger than the icy wind, and for a moment a\ngreat dismay, took hold upon her,--for she understood not how it was that\nthe bond of silence should bind her, and that she should be unable to put\nforth her hand to help him whom she heard moaning and murmuring, but\ncould not see. And scarcely could her feet keep hold of the awful rock,\nor her form resist the upward sweep of the wind; but though he saw her\nnot nor she him, yet could not she leave him in his weakness and misery,\nsaying to herself that even if she could do nothing, it must be well that\na little love should be near.\n\nThen she heard him speak again, crouching under the rock at her feet;\nand he said faintly to himself, 'That was no dream. In the land of\ndarkness there are no dreams nor voices that speak within us. On the\nearth they were never silent struggling and crying; but there--all blank\nand still. Therefore it was no dream. It was One who came and looked me\nin the face; and love was in His eyes. I have not seen love, oh, for so\nlong! But it was no dream. If God is a dream I know not, but love I know.\nAnd He said to me, \"Arise and go.\" But to whom must I go? The words are\nwords that once I knew, and the face I knew. But to whom, to whom?'\n\nThe little Pilgrim cried aloud, so that she thought the rocks must be\nrent by the vehemence of her cry, calling like the other, 'Father,\nFather, Father!' as if her heart would burst; and it was like despair to\nthink that she made no sound, and that the brother could not hear her who\nlay thus fainting at her feet. Yet she could not stop, but went on crying\nlike a child that has lost its way; for to whom could a child call but to\nher father, and all the more when she cannot understand? And she called\nout and said that God was not His name save to strangers, if there are\nany strangers, but that His name was Father, and it was to Him that all\nmust go. And all her being thrilled like a bird with its song, so that\nthe very air stirred; yet no voice came. And she lifted up her face to\nthe watcher above, and beheld where she stood holding up her hands a\nlittle whiteness in the great dark. But though these two were calling and\ncalling, the silence was dumb. And neither of them could take him by the\nhand nor lift him up, nor show him, far, far above, the little diamond of\nthe light, but were constrained to stand still and watch, seeing that he\nwas one of those who are beyond hope.\n\nAfter she had waited a long time, he stirred again in the dark and\nmurmured to himself once more, saying low, 'I have slept and am\nstrong. And while I was sleeping He has come again; He has looked at\nme again. And somewhere I will find Him. I will arise and go; I will\narise and go--'\n\nAnd she heard him move at her feet and grope over the rock with his\nhands; but it was smooth as snow with no holding, and slippery as ice.\nAnd the watcher stood above and the Pilgrim below, but could not help\nhim. He groped and groped, and murmured to himself, ever saying, 'I\nwill arise and go.' And their hearts were wrung that they could not\nspeak to him nor touch him nor help him. But at last in the dark there\nburst forth a great cry, 'Who said it?' and then a sound of weeping,\nand amid the weeping, words. 'As when I was a child, as when hope\nwas--I will arise and I will go--to my Father, to my Father! for now I\nremember, and I know.'\n\nThe little Pilgrim sank down into a crevice of the rocks in the weakness\nof her great joy. And something passed her mounting up and up; and it\nseemed to her that he had touched her shoulder or her hand unawares, and\nthat the dumb cry in her heart had reached him, and that it had been good\nfor him that a little love stood by, though only to watch and to weep.\nAnd she listened and heard him go on and on; and she herself ascended\nhigher to the watch-tower. And the watcher was gone who had waited there\nfor her beloved, for she had gone with him, as the Lord had promised her,\nto be the one who should lead him to the holy city and to see the\nFather's face. And it was given to the little Pilgrim to sound the silver\nbells and to warn all the bands of the blessed, and the great angels and\nlords of the whole world, that from out the land of darkness and from the\nregions beyond hope another had come.\n\nShe remained not there long, because there were many who sought that\nplace that they might be the first to see if one beloved was among the\ntravellers by that terrible way, and to welcome the brother or sister who\nwas the most dear to them of all the children of the Father. But it was\nthus that she learned the last lesson of all that is in heaven and that\nis in earth, and in the heights above and in the depths below, which the\ngreat angels desire to look into, and all the princes and powers. And it\nis this: that there is that which is beyond hope yet not beyond love; and\nthat hope may fail and be no longer possible, but love cannot fail,--for\nhope is of men, but love is the Lord; and there is but one thing which to\nHim is not possible, which is to forget; and that even when the Father\nhas hidden His face and help is forbidden, yet there goes He secretly and\ncannot forbear.\n\nBut if there were any deep more profound, and to which access was not,\neither from the dark mountains or by any other way, the Pilgrim was not\ntaught, nor ever found any knowledge, either among the angels who know\nall things, or among her brothers who were the children of men.\n\n\n\n\nIII.\n\nTHE LAND OF DARKNESS.\n\n\nI found myself standing on my feet, with the tingling sensation of having\ncome down rapidly upon the ground from a height. There was a similar\nfeeling in my head, as of the whirling and sickening sensation of passing\ndownwards through the air, like the description Dante gives of his\ndescent upon Geryon. My mind, curiously enough, was sufficiently\ndisengaged to think of that, or at least to allow swift passage for the\nrecollection through my thoughts. All the aching of wonder, doubt, and\nfear which I had been conscious of a little while before was gone. There\nwas no distinct interval between the one condition and the other, nor in\nmy fall (as I supposed it must have been) had I any consciousness of\nchange. There was the whirling of the air, resisting my passage, yet\ngiving way under me in giddy circles, and then the sharp shock of once\nmore feeling under my feet something solid, which struck, yet sustained.\nAfter a little while the giddiness above and the tingling below passed\naway, and I felt able to look about me and discern where I was. But not\nall at once; the things immediately about me impressed me first, then the\ngeneral aspect of the new place.\n\nFirst of all the light, which was lurid, as if a thunder-storm were\ncoming on. I looked up involuntarily to see if it had begun to rain; but\nthere was nothing of the kind, though what I saw above me was a lowering\ncanopy of cloud, dark, threatening, with a faint reddish tint diffused\nupon the vaporous darkness. It was, however, quite sufficiently clear to\nsee everything, and there was a good deal to see. I was in a street of\nwhat seemed a great and very populous place. There were shops on either\nside, full apparently of all sorts of costly wares. There was a continual\ncurrent of passengers up and down on both sides of the way, and in the\nmiddle of the street carriages of every description, humble and splendid.\nThe noise was great and ceaseless; the traffic continual. Some of the\nshops were most brilliantly lighted, attracting one's eyes in the sombre\nlight outside, which, however, had just enough of day in it to make these\nspots of illumination look sickly. Most of the places thus distinguished\nwere apparently bright with the electric or some other scientific light;\nand delicate machines of every description, brought to the greatest\nperfection, were in some windows, as were also many fine productions of\nart, but mingled with the gaudiest and coarsest in a way which struck me\nwith astonishment. I was also much surprised by the fact that the\ntraffic, which was never stilled for a moment, seemed to have no sort of\nregulation. Some carriages dashed along, upsetting the smaller vehicles\nin their way, without the least restraint or order, either, as it seemed,\nfrom their own good sense or from the laws and customs of the place. When\nan accident happened, there was a great shouting, and sometimes a furious\nencounter; but nobody seemed to interfere. This was the first impression\nmade upon me. The passengers on the pavement were equally regardless. I\nwas myself pushed out of the way, first to one side, then to another,\nhustled when I paused for a moment, trodden upon and driven about. I\nretreated soon to the doorway of a shop, from whence with a little more\nsafety I could see what was going on. The noise made my head ring. It\nseemed to me that I could not hear myself think. If this were to go on\nforever, I said to myself, I should soon go mad.\n\n'Oh, no,' said some one behind me, 'not at all. You will get used to it;\nyou will be glad of it. One does not want to hear one's thoughts; most of\nthem are not worth hearing.'\n\nI turned round and saw it was the master of the shop, who had come to the\ndoor on seeing me. He had the usual smile of a man who hoped to sell his\nwares; but to my horror and astonishment, by some process which I could\nnot understand, I saw that he was saying to himself, 'What a d----d fool!\nhere's another of those cursed wretches, d---- him!' all with the same\nsmile. I started back, and answered him as hotly, 'What do you mean by\ncalling me a d----d fool? fool yourself, and all the rest of it. Is this\nthe way you receive strangers here?'\n\n'Yes,' he said with the same smile, 'this is the way; and I only describe\nyou as you are, as you will soon see. Will you walk in and look over my\nshop? Perhaps you will find something to suit you if you are just setting\nup, as I suppose.'\n\nI looked at him closely, but this time I could not see that he was\nsaying anything beyond what was expressed by his lips: and I followed\nhim into the shop, principally because it was quieter than the street,\nand without any intention of buying,--for what should I buy in a strange\nplace where I had no settled habitation, and which probably I was only\npassing through?\n\n'I will look at your things,' I said, in a way which I believe I had, of\nperhaps undue pretension. I had never been over-rich, or of very elevated\nstation; but I was believed by my friends (or enemies) to have an\ninclination to make myself out something more important than I was. 'I\nwill look at your things, and possibly I may find something that may suit\nme; but with all the _ateliers_ of Paris and London to draw from, it is\nscarcely to be expected that in a place like this--'\n\nHere I stopped to draw my breath, with a good deal of confusion; for I\nwas unwilling to let him see that I did not know where I was.\n\n'A place like this,' said the shop-keeper, with a little laugh which\nseemed to me full of mockery, 'will supply you better, you will find,\nthan--any other place. At least you will find it the only place\npracticable,' he added. 'I perceive you are a stranger here.'\n\n'Well, I may allow myself to be so, more or less. I have not had time to\nform much acquaintance with--the place; what--do you call the place?--its\nformal name, I mean,' I said with a great desire to keep up the air of\nsuperior information. Except for the first moment, I had not experienced\nthat strange power of looking into the man below the surface which had\nfrightened me. Now there occurred another gleam of insight, which gave me\nonce more a sensation of alarm. I seemed to see a light of hatred and\ncontempt below his smile; and I felt that he was not in the least taken\nin by the air which I assumed.\n\n'The name of the place,' he said, 'is not a pretty one. I hear the\ngentlemen who come to my shop say that it is not to be named to ears\npolite; and I am sure your ears are very polite.' He said this with the\nmost offensive laugh, and I turned upon him and answered him, without\nmincing matters, with a plainness of speech which startled myself, but\ndid not seem to move him, for he only laughed again. 'Are you not\nafraid,' I said, 'that I will leave your shop and never enter it more?'\n\n'Oh, it helps to pass the time,' he said; and without any further comment\nbegan to show me very elaborate and fine articles of furniture. I had\nalways been attracted to this sort of thing, and had longed to buy such\narticles for my house when I had one, but never had it in my power. Now I\nhad no house, nor any means of paying so far as I knew, but I felt quite\nat my ease about buying, and inquired into the prices with the greatest\ncomposure.\n\n'They are just the sort of thing I want. I will take these, I think; but\nyou must set them aside for me, for I do not at the present moment\nexactly know--'\n\n'You mean you have got no rooms to put them in,' said the master of the\nshop. 'You must get a house directly, that's all. If you're only up to\nit, it is easy enough. Look about until you find something you like, and\nthen--take possession.'\n\n'Take possession'--I was so much surprised that I stared at him\nwith mingled indignation and surprise--'of what belongs to another\nman?' I said.\n\nI was not conscious of anything ridiculous in my look. I was indignant,\nwhich is not a state of mind in which there is any absurdity; but the\nshop-keeper suddenly burst into a storm of laughter. He laughed till he\nseemed almost to fall into convulsions, with a harsh mirth which reminded\nme of the old image of the crackling of thorns, and had neither amusement\nnor warmth in it; and presently this was echoed all around, and looking\nup, I saw grinning faces full of derision bent upon me from every side,\nfrom the stairs which led to the upper part of the house and from the\ndepths of the shop behind,--faces with pens behind their ears, faces in\nworkmen's caps, all distended from ear to ear, with a sneer and a mock\nand a rage of laughter which nearly sent me mad. I hurled I don't know\nwhat imprecations at them as I rushed out, stopping my ears in a paroxysm\nof fury and mortification. My mind was so distracted by this occurrence\nthat I rushed without knowing it upon some one who was passing, and threw\nhim down with the violence of my exit; upon which I was set on by a party\nof half a dozen ruffians, apparently his companions, who would, I\nthought, kill me, but who only flung me, wounded, bleeding, and feeling\nas if every bone in my body had been broken, down on the pavement, when\nthey went away, laughing too.\n\nI picked myself up from the edge of the causeway, aching and sore from\nhead to foot, scarcely able to move, yet conscious that if I did not get\nmyself out of the way, one or other of the vehicles which were dashing\nalong would run over me. It would be impossible to describe the miserable\nsensations, both of body and mind, with which I dragged myself across the\ncrowded pavement, not without curses and even kicks from the passers-by,\nand avoiding the shop from which I still heard those shrieks of devilish\nlaughter, gathered myself up in the shelter of a little projection of a\nwall, where I was for the moment safe. The pain which I felt was as\nnothing to the sense of humiliation, the mortification, the rage with\nwhich I was possessed. There is nothing in existence more dreadful than\nrage which is impotent, which cannot punish or avenge, which has to\nrestrain itself and put up with insults showered upon it. I had never\nknown before what that helpless, hideous exasperation was; and I was\nhumiliated beyond description, brought down--I, whose inclination it was\nto make more of myself than was justifiable--to the aspect of a miserable\nruffian beaten in a brawl, soiled, covered with mud and dust, my clothes\ntorn, my face bruised and disfigured,--all this within half an hour or\nthere about of my arrival in a strange place where nobody knew me or\ncould do me justice! I kept looking out feverishly for some one with an\nair of authority to whom I could appeal. Sooner or later somebody must go\nby, who, seeing me in such a plight, must inquire how it came about, must\nhelp me and vindicate me. I sat there for I cannot tell how long,\nexpecting every moment that were it but a policeman, somebody would\nnotice and help me; but no one came. Crowds seemed to sweep by without a\npause,--all hurrying, restless; some with anxious faces, as if any delay\nwould be mortal; some in noisy groups intercepting the passage of the\nothers. Sometimes one would pause to point me out to his comrades with a\nshout of derision at my miserable plight, or if by a change of posture I\ngot outside the protection of my wall, would kick me back with a coarse\ninjunction to keep out of the way. No one was sorry for me; not a look of\ncompassion, not a word of inquiry was wasted upon me; no representative\nof authority appeared. I saw a dozen quarrels while I lay there, cries of\nthe weak, and triumphant shouts of the strong; but that was all.\n\nI was drawn after a while from the fierce and burning sense of my own\ngrievances by a querulous voice quite close to me. 'This is my corner,'\nit said. 'I've sat here for years, and I have a right to it. And here you\ncome, you big ruffian, because you know I haven't got the strength to\npush you away.'\n\n'Who are you?' I said, turning round horror-stricken; for close beside me\nwas a miserable man, apparently in the last stage of disease. He was pale\nas death, yet eaten up with sores. His body was agitated by a nervous\ntrembling. He seemed to shuffle along on hands and feet, as though the\nordinary mode of locomotion was impossible to him, and yet was in\npossession of all his limbs. Pain was written in his face. I drew away to\nleave him room, with mingled pity and horror that this poor wretch should\nbe the partner of the only shelter I could find within so short a time of\nmy arrival. I who--It was horrible, shameful, humiliating; and yet the\nsuffering in his wretched face was so evident that I could not but feel a\npang of pity too. 'I have nowhere to go,' I said. 'I am--a stranger. I\nhave been badly used, and nobody seems to care.'\n\n'No,' he said, 'nobody cares; don't you look for that. Why should they?\nWhy, you look as if you were sorry for _me!_ What a joke!' he murmured\nto himself,--'what a joke! Sorry for some one else! What a fool the\nfellow must be!'\n\n'You look,' I said, 'as if you were suffering horribly; and you say you\nhave come here for years.'\n\n'Suffering! I should think I was,' said the sick man; 'but what is that\nto you? Yes; I've been here for years,--oh, years! that means\nnothing,--for longer than can be counted. Suffering is not the word. It's\ntorture; it's agony! But who cares? Take your leg out of my way.'\n\nI drew myself out of his way from a sort of habit, though against my\nwill, and asked, from habit too, 'Are you never any better than now?'\n\nHe looked at me more closely, and an air of astonishment came over his\nface. 'What d'ye want here,' he said, 'pitying a man? That's something\nnew here. No; I'm not always so bad, if you want to know. I get better,\nand then I go and do what makes me bad again, and that's how it will go\non; and I choose it to be so, and you needn't bring any of your d----d\npity here.'\n\n'I may ask, at least, why aren't you looked after? Why don't you get into\nsome hospital?' I said.\n\n'Hospital!' cried the sick man, and then he too burst out into that\nfurious laugh, the most awful sound I ever had heard. Some of the\npassers-by stopped to hear what the joke was, and surrounded me with once\nmore a circle of mockers.\n\n'Hospitals! perhaps you would like a whole Red Cross Society, with\nambulances and all arranged?' cried one. 'Or the _Misericordia_!' shouted\nanother. I sprang up to my feet, crying, 'Why not?' with an impulse of\nrage which gave me strength. Was I never to meet with anything but this\nfiendish laughter? 'There's some authority, I suppose,' I cried in my\nfury. 'It is not the rabble that is the only master here, I hope.' But\nnobody took the least trouble to hear what I had to say for myself. The\nlast speaker struck me on the mouth, and called me an accursed fool for\ntalking of what I did not understand; and finally they all swept on and\npassed away.\n\nI had been, as I thought, severely injured when I dragged myself into\nthat corner to save myself from the crowd; but I sprang up now as if\nnothing had happened to me. My wounds had disappeared; my bruises were\ngone. I was as I had been when I dropped, giddy and amazed, upon the\nsame pavement, how long--an hour?--before? It might have been an hour,\nit might have been a year, I cannot tell. The light was the same as\never, the thunderous atmosphere unchanged. Day, if it was day, had\nmade no progress; night, if it was evening, had come no nearer,--all\nwas the same.\n\nAs I went on again presently, with a vexed and angry spirit, regarding on\nevery side around me the endless surging of the crowd, and feeling a\nloneliness, a sense of total abandonment and solitude, which I cannot\ndescribe, there came up to me a man of remarkable appearance. That he was\na person of importance, of great knowledge and information, could not be\ndoubted. He was very pale, and of a worn but commanding aspect. The lines\nof his face were deeply drawn; his eyes were sunk under high arched\nbrows, from which they looked out as from caves, full of a fiery\nimpatient light. His thin lips were never quite without a smile; but it\nwas not a smile in which any pleasure was. He walked slowly, not\nhurrying, like most of the passengers. He had a reflective look, as if\npondering many things. He came up to me suddenly, without introduction or\npreliminary, and took me by the arm. 'What object had you in talking of\nthese antiquated institutions?' he said. And I saw in his mind the gleam\nof the thought, which seemed to be the first with all, that I was a fool,\nand that it was the natural thing to wish me harm, just as in the earth\nabove it was the natural thing, professed at least, to wish well,--to\nsay, Good-morning, good-day, by habit and without thought. In this\nstrange country the stranger was received with a curse, and it woke an\nanswer not unlike the hasty 'Curse you, then, also!' which seemed to come\nwithout any will of mine through my mind. But this provoked only a smile\nfrom my new friend. He took no notice. He was disposed to examine me, to\nfind some amusement perhaps--how could I tell?--in what I might say.\n\n'What antiquated things?'\n\n'Are you still so slow of understanding? What were they--hospitals? The\npretences of a world that can still deceive itself. Did you expect to\nfind them here?'\n\n'I expected to find--how should I know?' I said, bewildered--'some\nshelter for a poor wretch where he could be cared for, not to be left\nthere to die in the street. Expected! I never thought. I took it for\ngranted--'\n\n'To die in the street!' he cried with a smile and a shrug of his\nshoulders. 'You'll learn better by and by. And if he did die in the\nstreet, what then? What is that to you?'\n\n'To me!' I turned and looked at him, amazed; but he had somehow shut his\nsoul, so that I could see nothing but the deep eyes in their caves, and\nthe smile upon the close-shut mouth. 'No more to me than to any one. I\nonly spoke for humanity's sake, as--a fellow-creature.'\n\nMy new acquaintance gave way to a silent laugh within himself, which was\nnot so offensive as the loud laugh of the crowd, but yet was more\nexasperating than words can say. 'You think that matters? But it does not\nhurt you that he should he in pain. It would do you no good if he were to\nget well. Why should you trouble yourself one way or the other? Let him\ndie--if he can--That makes no difference to you or me.'\n\n'I must be dull indeed,' I cried,--'slow of understanding, as you say.\nThis is going back to the ideas of times beyond knowledge--before\nChristianity--' As soon as I had said this I felt somehow--I could not\ntell how--as if my voice jarred, as if something false and unnatural was\nin what I said. My companion gave my arm a twist as if with a shock of\nsurprise, then laughed in his inward way again.\n\n'We don't think much of that here, nor of your modern pretences in\ngeneral. The only thing that touches you and me is what hurts or helps\nourselves. To be sure, it all comes to the same thing,--for I suppose it\nannoys you to see that wretch writhing; it hurts your more delicate,\nhighly-cultivated consciousness.'\n\n'It has nothing to do with my consciousness,' I cried angrily; 'it is a\nshame to let a fellow-creature suffer if we can prevent it.'\n\n'Why shouldn't he suffer?' said my companion. We passed as he spoke some\nother squalid, wretched creatures shuffling among the crowd, whom he\nkicked with his foot, calling forth a yell of pain and curses. This he\nregarded with a supreme contemptuous calm which stupefied me. Nor did any\nof the passers-by show the slightest inclination to take the part of the\nsufferers. They laughed, or shouted out a gibe, or what was still more\nwonderful, went on with a complete unaffected indifference, as if all\nthis was natural. I tried to disengage my arm in horror and dismay, but\nhe held me fast with a pressure that hurt me. 'That's the question,' he\nsaid. 'What have we to do with it? Your fictitious consciousness makes it\npainful to you. To me, on the contrary, who take the view of nature, it\nis a pleasurable feeling. It enhances the amount of ease, whatever that\nmay be, which I enjoy. I am in no pain. That brute who is'--and he\nflicked with a stick he carried the uncovered wound of a wretch upon the\nroadside--'makes me more satisfied with my condition. Ah! you think it\nis I who am the brute? You will change your mind by and by.'\n\n'Never!' I cried, wrenching my arm from his with an effort, 'if I should\nlive a hundred years.'\n\n'A hundred years,--a drop in the bucket!' he said with his silent laugh.\n'You will live forever, and you will come to my view; and we shall meet\nin the course of ages, from time to time, to compare notes. I would say\ngood-by after the old fashion, but you are but newly arrived, and I will\nnot treat you so badly as that.' With which he parted from me, waving his\nhand, with his everlasting horrible smile.\n\n'Good-by!' I said to myself, 'good-by! why should it be treating me badly\nto say good-by--'\n\nI was startled by a buffet on the mouth. 'Take that!' cried some one,\n'to teach you how to wish the worst of tortures to people who have done\nyou no harm.'\n\n'What have I said? I meant no harm; I repeated only what is the commonest\ncivility, the merest good manners.'\n\n'You wished,' said the man who had struck me,--'I won't repeat the words:\nto me, for it was I only that heard them, the awful company that hurts\nmost, that sets everything before us, both past and to come, and cuts\nlike a sword and burns like fire. I'll say it to yourself, and see how it\nfeels. God be with you! There! it is said, and we all must bear it,\nthanks, you fool and accursed, to you.'\n\nAnd then there came a pause over all the place, an awful\nstillness,--hundreds of men and women standing clutching with desperate\nmovements at their hearts as if to tear them out, moving their heads as\nif to dash them against the wall, wringing their hands, with a look upon\nall their convulsed faces which I can never forget. They all turned to\nme, cursing me with those horrible eyes of anguish. And everything was\nstill; the noise all stopped for a moment, the air all silent, with a\nsilence that could be felt. And then suddenly out of the crowd there came\na great piercing cry; and everything began again exactly as before.\n\nWhile this pause occurred, and while I stood wondering, bewildered,\nunderstanding nothing, there came over me a darkness, a blackness, a\nsense of misery such as never in all my life--though I have known\ntroubles enough--I had felt before. All that had happened to me\nthroughout my existence seemed to rise pale and terrible in a hundred\nscenes before me,--all momentary, intense, as if each was the present\nmoment. And in each of these scenes I saw what I had never seen before. I\nsaw where I had taken the wrong instead of the right step, in what\nwantonness, with what self-will it had been done; how God (I shuddered at\nthe name) had spoken and called me, and even entreated, and I had\nwithstood and refused. All the evil I had done came back, and spread\nitself out before my eyes; and I loathed it, yet knew that I had chosen\nit, and that it would be with me forever. I saw it all in the twinkling\nof an eye, in a moment, while I stood there, and all men with me, in the\nhorror of awful thought. Then it ceased as it had come, instantaneously,\nand the noise and the laughter, and the quarrels and cries, and all the\ncommotion of this new bewildering place, in a moment began again. I had\nseen no one while this strange paroxysm lasted. When it disappeared, I\ncame to myself, emerging as from a dream, and looked into the face of the\nman whose words, not careless like mine, had brought it upon us. Our eyes\nmet, and his were surrounded by curves and lines of anguish which were\nterrible to see.\n\n'Well,' he said with a short laugh, which was forced and harsh, 'how do\nyou like it? that is what happens when--If it came often, who could\nendure it?' He was not like the rest. There was no sneer upon his face,\nno gibe at my simplicity. Even now, when all had recovered, he was still\nquivering with something that looked like a nobler pain. His face was\nvery grave, the lines deeply drawn in it; and he seemed to be seeking no\namusement or distraction, nor to take any part in the noise and tumult\nwhich was going on around.\n\n'Do you know what that cry meant?' he said. 'Did you hear that cry? It\nwas some one who saw--even here once in a long time, they say, it can\nbe seen--'\n\n'What can be seen?'\n\nHe shook his head, looking at me with a meaning which I could not\ninterpret. It was beyond the range of my thoughts. I came to know after,\nor I never could have made this record. But on that subject he said no\nmore. He turned the way I was going, though it mattered nothing what way\nI went, for all were the same to me. 'You are one of the new-comers?' he\nsaid; 'you have not been long here--'\n\n'Tell me,' I cried, 'what you mean by _here_. Where are we? How can one\ntell who has fallen--he knows not whence or where? What is this place? I\nhave never seen anything like it. It seems to me that I hate it already,\nthough I know not what it is.'\n\nHe shook his head once more. 'You will hate it more and more,' he said;\n'but of these dreadful streets you will never be free, unless--' And here\nhe stopped again.\n\n'Unless--what? If it is possible, I will be free of them, and that\nbefore long.'\n\nHe smiled at me faintly, as we smile at children, but not with derision.\n\n'How shall you do that? Between this miserable world and all others,\nthere is a great gulf fixed. It is full of all the bitterness and tears\nthat come from all the universe. These drop from them, but stagnate here.\nWe, you perceive, have no tears, not even at moments--' Then, 'You will\nsoon be accustomed to all this,' he said. 'You will fall into the way.\nPerhaps you will be able to amuse yourself to make it passable. Many do.\nThere are a number of fine things to be seen here. If you are curious,\ncome with me and I will show you. Or work,--there is even work. There is\nonly one thing that is impossible, or if not impossible--' And here he\npaused again and raised his eyes to the dark clouds and lurid sky\noverhead. 'The man who gave that cry! if I could but find him! he must\nhave seen--'\n\n'What could he see?' I asked. But there arose in my mind something like\ncontempt. A visionary! who could not speak plainly, who broke off into\nmysterious inferences, and appeared to know more than he would say. It\nseemed foolish to waste time, when evidently there was still so much to\nsee, in the company of such a man; and I began already to feel more at\nhome. There was something in that moment of anguish which had wrought a\nstrange familiarity in me with my surroundings. It was so great a relief\nto return out of the misery of that sharp and horrible self-realization,\nto what had come to be, in comparison, easy and well known. I had no\ndesire to go back and grope among the mysteries and anguish so suddenly\nrevealed. I was glad to be free from them, to be left to myself, to get a\nlittle pleasure perhaps like the others. While these thoughts passed\nthrough my mind, I had gone on without any active impulse of my own, as\neverybody else did; and my latest companion had disappeared. He saw, no\ndoubt, without any need for words, what my feelings were. And I proceeded\non my way. I felt better as I got more accustomed to the place, or\nperhaps it was the sensation of relief after that moment of indescribable\npain. As for the sights in the streets, I began to grow used to them. The\nwretched creatures who strolled or sat about with signs of sickness or\nwounds upon them disgusted me only, they no longer called forth my pity.\nI began to feel ashamed of my silly questions about the hospital. All the\nsame, it would have been a good thing to have had some receptacle for\nthem, into which they might have been driven out of the way. I felt an\ninclination to push them aside as I saw other people do, but was a little\nashamed of that impulse too; and so I went on. There seemed no quiet\nstreets, so far as I could make out, in the place. Some were smaller,\nmeaner, with a different kind of passengers, but the same hubbub and\nunresting movement everywhere. I saw no signs of melancholy or\nseriousness; active pain, violence, brutality, the continual shock of\nquarrels and blows, but no pensive faces about, no sorrowfulness, nor the\nkind of trouble which brings thought. Everybody was fully occupied,\npushing on as if in a race, pausing for nothing.\n\nThe glitter of the lights, the shouts, and sounds of continual going, the\nendless whirl of passers-by, confused and tired me after a while. I went\nas far out as I could go to what seemed the out-skirts of the place,\nwhere I could by glimpses perceive a low horizon all lurid and glowing,\nwhich seemed to sweep round and round. Against it in the distance stood\nup the outline, black against that red glow, of other towers and\nhouse-tops, so many and great that there was evidently another town\nbetween us and the sunset, if sunset it was. I have seen a western sky\nlike it when there were storms about, and all the colors of the sky were\nheightened and darkened by angry influences. The distant town rose\nagainst it, cutting the firmament so that it might have been tongues of\nflame flickering between the dark solid outlines; and across the waste\nopen country which lay between the two cities, there came a distant hum\nlike the sound of the sea, which was in reality the roar of that other\nmultitude. The country between showed no greenness or beauty; it lay dark\nunder the dark overhanging sky. Here and there seemed a cluster of giant\ntrees scathed as if by lightning, their bare boughs standing up as high\nas the distant towers, their trunks like black columns without foliage.\nOpenings here and there, with glimmering lights, looked like the mouths\nof mines; but of passengers there were scarcely any. A figure here and\nthere flew along as if pursued, imperfectly seen, a shadow only a little\ndarker than the space about. And in contrast with the sound of the city,\nhere was no sound at all, except the low roar on either side, and a\nvague cry or two from the openings of the mine,--a scene all drawn in\ndarkness, in variations of gloom, deriving scarcely any light at all from\nthe red and gloomy burning of that distant evening sky.\n\nA faint curiosity to go forwards, to see what the mines were, perhaps to\nget a share in what was brought up from them, crossed my mind. But I was\nafraid of the dark, of the wild uninhabited savage look of the landscape;\nthough when I thought of it, there seemed no reason why a narrow stretch\nof country between two great towns should be alarming. But the impression\nwas strong and above reason. I turned back to the street in which I had\nfirst alighted, and which seemed to end in a great square full of people.\nIn the middle there was a stage erected, from which some one was\ndelivering an oration or address of some sort. He stood beside a long\ntable, upon which lay something which I could not clearly distinguish,\nexcept that it seemed alive, and moved, or rather writhed with convulsive\ntwitchings, as if trying to get free of the bonds which confined it.\nRound the stage in front were a number of seats occupied by listeners,\nmany of whom were women, whose interest seemed to be very great, some of\nthem being furnished with note-books; while a great unsettled crowd\ncoming and going, drifted round,--many, arrested for a time as they\npassed, proceeding on their way when the interest flagged, as is usual to\nsuch open-air assemblies. I followed two of those who pushed their way to\nwithin a short distance of the stage, and who were strong, big men, more\nfitted to elbow the crowd aside than I, after my rough treatment in the\nfirst place, and the agitation I had passed through, could be. I was\nglad, besides, to take advantage of the explanation which one was giving\nto the other. 'It's always fun to see this fellow demonstrate,' he said,\n'and the subject to-day's a capital one. Let's get well forward, and see\nall that's going on.'\n\n'Which subject do you mean?' said the other; 'the theme or the example?'\nAnd they both laughed, though I did not seize the point of the wit.\n\n'Well, both,' said the first speaker. 'The theme is nerves; and as a\nlesson in construction and the calculation of possibilities, it's fine.\nHe's very clever at that. He shows how they are all strung to give as\nmuch pain and do as much harm as can be; and yet how well it's all\nmanaged, don't you know, to look the reverse. As for the example, he's a\ncapital one--all nerves together, lying, if you like, just on the\nsurface, ready for the knife.'\n\n'If they're on the surface I can't see where the fun is,' said the other.\n\n'Metaphorically speaking. Of course they are just where other people's\nnerves are; but he's what you call a highly organized nervous\nspecimen. There will be plenty of fun. Hush! he is just going to begin.'\n\n'The arrangement of these threads of being,' said the lecturer, evidently\nresuming after a pause, 'so as to convey to the brain the most\ninstantaneous messages of pain or pleasure, is wonderfully skilful and\nclever. I need not say to the audience before me, enlightened as it is by\nexperiences of the most striking kind, that the messages are less of\npleasure than of pain. They report to the brain the stroke of injury far\nmore often than the thrill of pleasure; though sometimes that too, no\ndoubt, or life could scarcely be maintained. The powers that be have\nfound it necessary to mingle a little sweet of pleasurable sensation,\nelse our miserable race would certainly have found some means of\nprocuring annihilation. I do not for a moment pretend to say that the\npleasure is sufficient to offer a just counterbalance to the other. None\nof my hearers will, I hope, accuse me of inconsistency. I am ready to\nallow that in a previous condition I asserted somewhat strongly that this\nwas the case; but experience has enlightened us on that point. Our\ncircumstances are now understood by us all in a manner impossible while\nwe were still in a condition of incompleteness. We are all convinced that\nthere is no compensation. The pride of the position, of bearing\neverything rather than give in, or making a submission we do not feel, of\npreserving our own will and individuality to all eternity, is the only\ncompensation. I am satisfied with it, for my part.'\n\nThe orator made a pause, holding his head high, and there was a certain\namount of applause. The two men before me cheered vociferously. 'That is\nthe right way to look at it,' one of them said. My eyes were upon them,\nwith no particular motive; and I could not help starting, as I saw\nsuddenly underneath their applause and laughter a snarl of cursing, which\nwas the real expression of their thoughts. I felt disposed in the same\nway to curse the speaker, though I knew no reason why.\n\nHe went on a little farther, explaining what he meant to do; and then\nturning round, approached the table. An assistant, who was waiting,\nuncovered it quickly. The audience stirred with quickened interest, and I\nwith consternation made a step forwards, crying out with horror. The\nobject on the table, writhing, twitching to get free, but bound down by\nevery limb, was a living man. The lecturer went forwards calmly, taking\nhis instruments from their case with perfect composure and coolness.\n'Now, ladies and gentlemen,' he said, and inserted the knife in the\nflesh, making a long clear cut in the bound arm. I shrieked out, unable\nto restrain myself. The sight of the deliberate wound, the blood, the cry\nof agony that came from the victim, the calmness of all the lookers-on,\nfilled me with horror and rage indescribable. I felt myself clear the\ncrowd away with a rush, and spring on the platform, I could not tell how.\n'You devil!' I cried, 'let the man go! Where is the police? Where is a\nmagistrate? Let the man go this moment! fiends in human shape! I'll have\nyou brought to justice!' I heard myself shouting wildly, as I flung\nmyself upon the wretched sufferer, interposing between him and the knife.\nIt was something like this that I said. My horror and rage were\ndelirious, and carried me beyond all attempt at control.\n\nThrough it all I heard a shout of laughter rising from everybody round.\nThe lecturer laughed; the audience roared with that sound of horrible\nmockery which had driven me out of myself in my first experience. All\nkinds of mocking cries sounded around me. 'Let him a little blood to calm\nhim down.' 'Let the fool have a taste of it himself, doctor.' Last of all\ncame a voice mingled with the cries of the sufferer whom I was trying to\nshield, 'Take him instead; curse him! take him instead.' I was bending\nover the man with my arms outstretched, protecting him, when he gave vent\nto this cry. And I heard immediately behind me a shout of assent, which\nseemed to come from the two strong young men with whom I had been\nstanding, and the sound of a rush to seize me. I looked round, half mad\nwith terror and rage; a second more and I should have been strapped on\nthe table too. I made one wild bound into the midst of the crowd; and\nstruggling among the arms stretched out to catch me, amid the roar of the\nlaughter and cries--fled--fled wildly, I knew not whither, in panic and\nrage and horror which no words could describe. Terror winged my feet. I\nflew, thinking as little of whom I met, or knocked down, or trod upon in\nmy way, as the others did at whom I had wondered a little while ago.\n\nNo distinct impression of this headlong course remains in my mind, save\nthe sensation of mad fear such as I had never felt before. I came to\nmyself on the edge of the dark valley which surrounded the town. All my\npursuers had dropped off before that time; and I have the recollection of\nflinging myself upon the ground on my face in the extremity of fatigue\nand exhaustion. I must have lain there undisturbed for some time. A few\nsteps came and went, passing me; but no one took any notice, and the\nabsence of the noise and crowding gave me a momentary respite. But in my\nheat and fever I got no relief of coolness from the contact of the soil.\nI might have flung myself upon a bed of hot ashes, so much was it unlike\nthe dewy cool earth which I expected, upon which one can always throw\none's self with a sensation of repose. Presently the uneasiness of it\nmade me struggle up again and look around me. I was safe; at least the\ncries of the pursuers had died away, the laughter which made my blood\nboil offended my ears no more. The noise of the city was behind me,\nsoftened into an indefinite roar by distance, and before me stretched out\nthe dreary landscape in which there seemed no features of attraction.\nNow that I was nearer to it, I found it not so unpeopled as I thought. At\nno great distance from me was the mouth of one of the mines, from which\ncame an indication of subterranean lights; and I perceived that the\nflying figures which I had taken for travellers between one city and\nanother were in reality wayfarers endeavoring to keep clear of what\nseemed a sort of press-gang at the openings. One of them, unable to stop\nhimself in his flight, adopted the same expedient as myself, and threw\nhimself on the ground close to me when he had got beyond the range of\npursuit. It was curious that we should meet there, he flying from a\ndanger which I was about to face, and ready to encounter that from which\nI had fled. I waited for a few minutes till he had recovered his breath,\nand then, 'What are you running from?' I said. 'Is there any danger\nthere?' The man looked up at me with the same continual question in his\neyes,--Who is this fool?\n\n'Danger!' he said. 'Are you so new here, or such a cursed idiot, as not\nto know the danger of the mines? You are going across yourself, I\nsuppose, and then you'll see.'\n\n'But tell me,' I said; 'my experience may be of use to you afterwards,\nif you will tell me yours now.'\n\n'Of use!' he cried, staring; 'who cares? Find out for yourself. If they\nget hold of you, you will soon understand.'\n\nI no longer took this for rudeness, but answered in his own way, cursing\nhim too for a fool. 'If I ask a warning I can give one; as for kindness,'\nI said, 'I was not looking for that.'\n\nAt this he laughed, indeed we laughed together,--there seemed something\nridiculous in the thought; and presently he told me, for the mere relief\nof talking, that round each of these pit-mouths there was a band to\nentrap every passer-by who allowed himself to be caught, and send him\ndown below to work in the mine. 'Once there, there is no telling when you\nmay get free,' he said; 'one time or other most people have a taste of\nit. You don't know what hard labor is if you have never been there. I had\na spell once. There is neither air nor light; your blood boils in your\nveins from the fervent heat; you are never allowed to rest. You are put\nin every kind of contortion to get at it, your limbs twisted, and your\nmuscles strained.'\n\n'For what?' I said.\n\n'For gold!' he cried with a flash in his eyes--'gold! There it is\ninexhaustible; however hard you may work, there is always more, and\nmore!'\n\n'And to whom does all that belong?' I said. 'To whoever is strong enough\nto get hold and keep possession,--sometimes one, sometimes another. The\nonly thing you are sure of is that it will never be you.'\n\nWhy not I as well as another? was the thought that went through my mind,\nand my new companion spied it with a shriek of derision.\n\n'It is not for you nor your kind,' he cried. 'How do you think you could\nforce other people to serve _you_? Can you terrify them or hurt them, or\ngive them anything? You have not learned yet who are the masters here.'\n\nThis troubled me, for it was true. 'I had begun to think,' I said, 'that\nthere was no authority at all,--for every man seems to do as he pleases;\nyou ride over one, and knock another down, or you seize a living man and\ncut him to pieces'--I shuddered as I thought of it--'and there is nobody\nto interfere.'\n\n'Who should interfere?' he said. 'Why shouldn't every man amuse himself\nas he can? But yet for all that we've got our masters,' he cried with a\nscowl, waving his clinched fist in the direction of the mines; 'you'll\nfind it out when you get there.'\n\nIt was a long time after this before I ventured to move, for here it\nseemed to me that for the moment I was safe,--outside the city, yet not\nwithin reach of the dangers of that intermediate space which grew clearer\nbefore me as my eyes became accustomed to the lurid threatening afternoon\nlight. One after another the fugitives came flying past me,--people who\nhad escaped from the armed bands whom I could now see on the watch near\nthe pit's mouth. I could see too the tactics of these bands,--how they\nretired, veiling the lights and the opening, when a greater number than\nusual of travellers appeared on the way, and then suddenly widening out,\nthrowing out flanking lines, surrounded and drew in the unwary. I could\neven hear the cries with which their victims disappeared over the opening\nwhich seemed to go down into the bowels of the earth. By and by there\ncame flying towards me a wretch more dreadful in aspect than any I had\nseen. His scanty clothes seemed singed and burned into rags; his hair,\nwhich hung about his face unkempt and uncared for, had the same singed\naspect; his skin was brown and baked. I got up as he approached, and\ncaught him and threw him to the ground, without heeding his struggles to\nget on. 'Don't you see,' he cried with a gasp, 'they may get me again.'\nHe was one of those who had escaped out of the mines; but what was it to\nme whether they caught him again or not? I wanted to know how he had been\ncaught, and what he had been set to do, and how he had escaped. Why\nshould I hesitate to use my superior strength when no one else did? I\nkept watch over him that he should not get away.\n\n'You have been in the mines?' I said.\n\n'Let me go!' he cried. 'Do you need to ask?' and he cursed me as he\nstruggled, with the most terrible imprecations. 'They may get me yet.\nLet me go!'\n\n'Not till you tell me,' I cried. 'Tell me and I'll protect you. If they\ncome near I'll let you go. Who are they, man? I must know.'\n\nHe struggled up from the ground, clearing his hot eyes from the ashes\nthat were in them, and putting aside his singed hair. He gave me a glance\nof hatred and impotent resistance (for I was stronger than he), and then\ncast a wild terrified look back. The skirmishers did not seem to remark\nthat anybody had escaped, and he became gradually a little more composed.\n'Who are they?' he said hoarsely. 'They're cursed wretches like you and\nme; and there are as many bands of them as there are mines on the road;\nand you'd better turn back and stay where you are. You are safe here.'\n\n'I will not turn back,' I said.\n\n'I know well enough: you can't. You've got to go the round like the\nrest,' he said with a laugh which was like a sound uttered by a wild\nanimal rather than a human voice. The man was in my power, and I struck\nhim, miserable as he was. It seemed a relief thus to get rid of some of\nthe fury in my mind. 'It's a lie,' I said; 'I go because I please. Why\nshouldn't I gather a band of my own if I please, and fight those brutes,\nnot fly from them like you?'\n\nHe chuckled and laughed below his breath, struggling and cursing and\ncrying out, as I struck him again, 'You gather a band! What could you\noffer them? Where would you find them? Are you better than the rest of\nus? Are you not a man like the rest? Strike me you can, for I'm down. But\nmake yourself a master and a chief--you!'\n\n'Why not I?' I shouted again, wild with rage and the sense that I had no\npower over him, save to hurt him. That passion made my hands tremble; he\nslipped from me in a moment, bounded from the ground like a ball, and\nwith a yell of derision escaped, and plunged into the streets and the\nclamor of the city from which I had just flown. I felt myself rage after\nhim, shaking my fists with a consciousness of the ridiculous passion of\nimpotence that was in me, but no power of restraining it; and there was\nnot one of the fugitives who passed, however desperate he might be, who\ndid not make a mock at me as he darted by. The laughing-stock of all\nthose miserable objects, the sport of fate, afraid to go forwards, unable\nto go back, with a fire in my veins urging me on! But presently I grew a\nlittle calmer out of mere exhaustion, which was all the relief that was\npossible to me. And by and by, collecting all my faculties, and impelled\nby this impulse, which I seemed unable to resist, I got up and went\ncautiously on.\n\nFear can act in two ways: it paralyzes, and it renders cunning. At this\nmoment I found it inspire me. I made my plans before I started, how to\nsteal along under the cover of the blighted brushwood which broke the\nline of the valley here and there. I set out only after long thought,\nseizing the moment when the vaguely perceived band were scouring in the\nother direction intercepting the travellers. Thus, with many pauses, I\ngot near to the pit's mouth in safety. But my curiosity was as great as,\nalmost greater than my terror. I had kept far from the road, dragging\nmyself sometimes on hands and feet over broken ground, tearing my clothes\nand my flesh upon the thorns; and on that farther side all seemed so\nsilent and so dark in the shadow cast by some disused machinery, behind\nwhich the glare of the fire from below blazed upon the other side of the\nopening, that I could not crawl along in the darkness, and pass, which\nwould have been the safe way, but with a breathless hot desire to see and\nknow, dragged myself to the very edge to look down. Though I was in the\nshadow, my eyes were nearly put out by the glare on which I gazed. It was\nnot fire; it was the lurid glow of the gold, glowing like flame, at which\ncountless miners were working. They were all about like flies,--some on\ntheir knees, some bent double as they stooped over their work, some lying\ncramped upon shelves and ledges. The sight was wonderful, and terrible\nbeyond description. The workmen seemed to consume away with the heat and\nthe glow, even in the few minutes I gazed. Their eyes shrank into their\nheads; their faces blackened. I could see some trying to secret morsels\nof the glowing metal, which burned whatever it touched, and some who were\nbeing searched by the superiors of the mines, and some who were punishing\nthe offenders, fixing them up against the blazing wall of gold. The fear\nwent out of my mind, so much absorbed was I in this sight. I gazed,\nseeing farther and farther every moment into crevices and seams of the\nglowing metal, always with more and more slaves at work, and the entire\npantomime of labor and theft, and search and punishment, going on and\non,--the baked faces dark against the golden glare, the hot eyes taking a\nyellow reflection, the monotonous clamor of pick and shovel, and cries\nand curses, and all the indistinguishable sound of a multitude of human\ncreatures. And the floor below, and the low roof which overhung whole\nmyriads within a few inches of their faces, and the irregular walls all\nbreached and shelved, were every one the same, a pandemonium of\ngold,--gold everywhere. I had loved many foolish things in my life, but\nnever this; which was perhaps why I gazed and kept my sight, though there\nrose out of it a blast of heat which scorched the brain.\n\nWhile I stooped over, intent on the sight, some one who had come up by\nmy side to gaze too was caught by the fumes (as I suppose), for suddenly\nI was aware of a dark object falling prone into the glowing interior with\na cry and crash which brought back my first wild panic. He fell in a\nheap, from which his arms shot forth wildly as he reached the bottom, and\nhis cry was half anguish yet half desire. I saw him seized by half a\ndozen eager watchers, and pitched upon a ledge just under the roof, and\ntools thrust into his hands. I held on by an old shaft, trembling, unable\nto move. Perhaps I cried too in my horror,--for one of the overseers who\nstood in the centre of the glare looked up. He had the air of ordering\nall that was going on, and stood unaffected by the blaze, commanding the\nother wretched officials, who obeyed him like dogs. He seemed to me, in\nmy terror, like a figure of gold, the image perhaps of wealth or Pluto,\nor I know not what, for I suppose my brain began to grow confused, and my\nhold on the shaft to relax. I had strength enough, however (for I cared\nnot for the gold), to fling myself back the other way upon the ground,\nwhere I rolled backwards, downwards, I knew not how, turning over and\nover upon sharp ashes and metallic edges, which tore my hair and\nbeard.--and for a moment I knew no more.\n\nThis fall saved me. I came to myself after a time, and heard the\npress-gang searching about. I had sense to lie still among the ashes\nthrown up out of the pit, while I heard their voices. Once I gave myself\nup for lost. The glitter of a lantern flashed in my eyes, a foot passed,\ncrashing among the ashes so close to my cheek that the shoe grazed it. I\nfound the mark after, burned upon my flesh; but I escaped notice by a\nmiracle. And presently I was able to drag myself up and crawl away; but\nhow I reached the end of the valley I cannot tell. I pushed my way along\nmechanically on the dark side. I had no further desire to see what was\ngoing on in the openings of the mines. I went on, stumbling and stupid,\nscarcely capable even of fear, conscious only of wretchedness and\nweariness, till at last I felt myself drop across the road within the\ngateway of the other town, and lay there with no thought of anything but\nthe relief of being at rest.\n\nWhen I came to myself, it seemed to me that there was a change in the\natmosphere and the light. It was less lurid, paler, gray, more like\ntwilight than the stormy afternoon of the other city. A certain dead\nserenity was in the sky,--black paleness, whiteness, everything faint in\nit. This town was walled, but the gates stood open, and I saw no defences\nof troops or other guardians. I found myself lying across the threshold,\nbut pushed to one side, so that the carriages which went and came should\nnot be stopped or I injured by their passage. It seemed to me that there\nwas some thoughtfulness and kindness in this action, and my heart sprang\nup in a reaction of hope. I looked back as if upon a nightmare on the\ndreadful city which I had left, on its tumults and noise, the wild racket\nof the streets, the wounded wretches who sought refuge in the corners,\nthe strife and misery that were abroad, and, climax of all, the horrible\nentertainment which had been going on in the square, the unhappy being\nstrapped upon the table. How, I said to myself, could such things be? Was\nit a dream? Was it a nightmare? Was it something presented to me in a\nvision,--a strong delusion to make me think that the old fables which had\nbeen told concerning the end of mortal life were true? When I looked back\nit appeared like an allegory, so that I might have seen it in a dream;\nand still more like an allegory were the gold mines in the valley, and\nthe myriads who labored there. Was it all true, or only a reflection\nfrom the old life mingling with the strange novelties which would most\nlikely elude understanding on the entrance into this new? I sat within\nthe shelter of the gateway on my awakening, and thought over all this. My\nheart was calm,--almost, in the revulsion from the terrors I had been\nthrough, happy. I persuaded myself that I was but now beginning; that\nthere had been no reality in these latter experiences, only a curious\nsuccession of nightmares, such as might so well be supposed to follow a\nwonderful transformation like that which must take place between our\nmortal life and--the world to come. The world to come! I paused and\nthought of it all, until the heart began to beat loud in my breast. What\nwas this where I lay? Another world,--a world which was not happiness,\nnot bliss? Oh, no; perhaps there was no world of bliss save in dreams.\nThis, on the other hand, I said to myself, was not misery; for was not I\nseated here, with a certain tremulousness about me, it was true, after\nall the experiences which, supposing them even to have been but dreams, I\nhad come through,--a tremulousness very comprehensible, and not at all\nwithout hope?\n\nI will not say that I believed even what I tried to think. Something in\nme lay like a dark shadow in the midst of all my theories; but yet I\nsucceeded to a great degree in convincing myself that the hope in me was\nreal, and that I was but now beginning--beginning with at least a\npossibility that all might be well. In this half conviction, and after\nall the troubles that were over (even though they might only have been\nimaginary troubles), I felt a certain sweetness in resting there within\nthe gateway, with my back against it. I was unwilling to get up again,\nand bring myself in contact with reality. I felt that there was pleasure\nin being left alone. Carriages rolled past me occasionally, and now and\nthen some people on foot; but they did not kick me out of the way or\ninterfere with my repose.\n\nPresently as I sat trying to persuade myself to rise and pursue my way,\ntwo men came up to me in a sort of uniform. I recognized with another\ndistinct sensation of pleasure that here were people who had authority,\nrepresentatives of some kind of government. They came up to me and bade\nme come with them in tones which were peremptory enough; but what of\nthat?--better the most peremptory supervision than the lawlessness from\nwhich I had come. They raised me from the ground with a touch, for I\ncould not resist them, and led me quickly along the street into which\nthat gateway gave access, which was a handsome street with tall houses\non either side. Groups of people were moving about along the pavement,\ntalking now and then with considerable animation; but when my companions\nwere seen, there was an immediate moderation of tone, a sort of respect\nwhich looked like fear. There was no brawling nor tumult of any kind in\nthe street. The only incident that occurred was this: when we had gone\nsome way, I saw a lame man dragging himself along with difficulty on the\nother side of the street. My conductors had no sooner perceived him than\nthey gave each other a look and darted across, conveying me with them,\nby a sweep of magnetic influence, I thought, that prevented me from\nstaying behind. He made an attempt with his crutches to get out of the\nway, hurrying on--and I will allow that this attempt of his seemed to me\nvery grotesque, so that I could scarcely help laughing; the other\nlookers-on in the street laughed too, though some put on an aspect of\ndisgust. 'Look, the tortoise!' some one said; 'does he think he can go\nquicker than the orderlies?' My companions came up to the man while this\ncommentary was going on, and seized him by each arm. 'Where were you\ngoing? Where have you come from? How dare you make an exhibition of\nyourself?' they cried. They took the crutches from him as they spoke and\nthrew them away, and dragged him on until we reached a great grated door\nwhich one of them opened with a key, while the other held the offender\n(for he seemed an offender) roughly up by one shoulder, causing him\ngreat pain. When the door was opened, I saw a number of people within,\nwho seemed to crowd to the door as if seeking to get out; but this was\nnot at all what was intended. My second companion dragged the lame man\nforwards, and pushed him in with so much violence that I could see him\nfall forwards on his face on the floor. Then the other locked the door,\nand we proceeded on our way. It was not till some time later that I\nunderstood why.\n\nIn the mean time I was hurried on, meeting a great many people who took\nno notice of me, to a central building in the middle of the town, where I\nwas brought before an official attended by clerks, with great books\nspread out before him. Here I was questioned as to my name and my\nantecedents and the time of my arrival, then dismissed with a nod to one\nof my conductors. He led me back again down the street, took me into one\nof the tall great houses, opened the door of a room which was numbered,\nand left me there without a word. I cannot convey to any one the\nbewildered consternation with which I felt myself deposited here; and as\nthe steps of my conductor died away in the long corridor, I sat down, and\nlooking myself in the face, as it were, tried to make out what it was\nthat had happened to me. The room was small and bare. There was but one\nthing hung upon the undecorated walls, and that was a long list of\nprinted regulations which I had not the courage for the moment to look\nat. The light was indifferent, though the room was high up, and the\nstreet from the window looked far away below. I cannot tell how long I\nsat there thinking, and yet it could scarcely be called thought. I asked\nmyself over and over again, Where am I? is it a prison? am I shut in, to\nleave this enclosure no more? what am I to do? how is the time to pass? I\nshut my eyes for a moment and tried to realize all that had happened to\nme; but nothing save a whirl through my head of disconnected thoughts\nseemed possible, and some force was upon me to open my eyes again, to\nsee the blank room, the dull light, the vacancy round me in which there\nwas nothing to interest the mind, nothing to please the eye,--a blank\nwherever I turned. Presently there came upon me a burning regret for\neverything I had left,--for the noisy town with all its tumults and\ncruelties, for the dark valley with all its dangers. Everything seemed\nbearable, almost agreeable, in comparison with this. I seemed to have\nbeen brought here to make acquaintance once more with myself, to learn\nover again what manner of man I was. Needless knowledge, acquaintance\nunnecessary, unhappy! for what was there in me to make me to myself a\ngood companion? Never, I knew, could I separate myself from that eternal\nconsciousness; but it was cruelty to force the contemplation upon me. All\nblank, blank around me, a prison! And was this to last forever?\n\nI do not know how long I sat, rapt in this gloomy vision; but at last it\noccurred to me to rise and try the door, which to my astonishment was\nopen. I went out with a throb of new hope. After all, it might not be\nnecessary to come back. There might be other expedients; I might fall\namong friends. I turned down the long echoing stairs, on which I met\nvarious people, who took no notice of me, and in whom I felt no interest\nsave a desire to avoid them, and at last reached the street. To be out of\ndoors in the air was something, though there was no wind, but a\nmotionless still atmosphere which nothing disturbed. The streets, indeed,\nwere full of movement, but not of life--though this seems a paradox. The\npassengers passed on their way in long regulated lines,--those who went\ntowards the gates keeping rigorously to one side of the pavement, those\nwho came, to the other. They talked to each other here and there; but\nwhenever two men in uniform, such as those who had been my conductors,\nappeared, silence ensued, and the wayfarers shrank even from the looks of\nthese persons in authority. I walked all about the spacious town.\nEverywhere there were tall houses, everywhere streams of people coming\nand going, but no one spoke to me, or remarked me at all. I was as lonely\nas if I had been in a wilderness. I was indeed in a wilderness of men,\nwho were as though they did not see me, passing without even a look of\nhuman fellowship, each absorbed in his own concerns. I walked and walked\ntill my limbs trembled under me, from one end to another of the great\nstreets, up and down, and round and round. But no one said, How are you?\nWhence come you? What are you doing? At length in despair I turned again\nto the blank and miserable room, which had looked to me like a cell in a\nprison. I had wilfully made no note of its situation, trying to avoid\nrather than to find it, but my steps were drawn thither against my will.\nI found myself retracing my steps, mounting the long stairs, passing the\nsame people, who streamed along with no recognition of me, as I desired\nnothing to do with them; and at last found myself within the same four\nblank walls as before.\n\nSoon after I returned I became conscious of measured steps passing the\ndoor, and of an eye upon me. I can say no more than this. From what point\nit was that I was inspected I cannot tell; but that I was inspected,\nclosely scrutinized by some one, and that not only externally, but by a\ncold observation that went through and through me, I knew and felt beyond\nany possibility of mistake. This recurred from time to time, horribly, at\nuncertain moments, so that I never felt myself secure from it. I knew\nwhen the watcher was coming by tremors and shiverings through all my\nbeing; and no sensation so unsupportable has it ever been mine to bear.\nHow much that is to say, no one can tell who has not gone through those\nregions of darkness, and learned what is in all their abysses. I tried at\nfirst to hide, to fling myself on the floor, to cover my face, to burrow\nin a dark corner. Useless attempts! The eyes that looked in upon me had\npowers beyond my powers. I felt sometimes conscious of the derisive smile\nwith which my miserable subterfuges were regarded. They were all in vain.\n\nAnd what was still more strange was that I had not energy to think of\nattempting any escape. My steps, though watched, were not restrained in\nany way, so far as I was aware. The gates of the city stood open on all\nsides, free to those who went as well as to those who came; but I did not\nthink of flight. Of flight! Whence should I go from myself? Though that\nhorrible inspection was from the eyes of some unseen being, it was in\nsome mysterious way connected with my own thinking and reflections, so\nthat the thought came ever more and more strongly upon me, that from\nmyself I could never escape. And that reflection took all energy, all\nimpulse from me. I might have gone away when I pleased, beyond reach of\nthe authority which regulated everything,--how one should walk, where\none should live,--but never from my own consciousness. On the other side\nof the town lay a great plain, traversed by roads on every side. There\nwas no reason why I should not continue my journey there; but I did not.\nI had no wish nor any power in me to go away.\n\nIn one of my long, dreary, companionless walks, unshared by any human\nfellowship, I saw at last a face which I remembered; it was that of the\ncynical spectator who had spoken to me in the noisy street, in the\nmidst of my early experiences. He gave a glance round him to see that\nthere were no officials in sight, then left the file in which he was\nwalking, and joined me. 'Ah!' he said, 'you are here already,' with the\nsame derisive smile with which he had before regarded me. I hated the\nman and his sneer, yet that he should speak to me was something, almost\na pleasure.\n\n'Yes,' said I, 'I am here.' Then, after a pause, in which I did not know\nwhat to say, 'It is quiet here,' I said.\n\n'Quiet enough. Do you like it better for that? To do whatever you please\nwith no one to interfere; or to do nothing you please, but as you are\nforced to do it,--which do you think is best?'\n\nI felt myself instinctively glance round, as he had done, to make sure\nthat no one was in sight. Then I answered, faltering, 'I have always held\nthat law and order were necessary things; and the lawlessness of\nthat--that place--I don't know its name--if there is such a place,' I\ncried, 'I thought it was a dream.'\n\nHe laughed in his mocking way. 'Perhaps it is all a dream; who knows?' he\nsaid.\n\n'Sir,' said I, 'you have been longer here than I--'\n\n'Oh,' cried he, with a laugh that was dry and jarred upon the air almost\nlike a shriek, 'since before your forefathers were born!' It seemed to me\nthat he spoke like one who, out of bitterness and despite, made every\ndarkness blacker still. A kind of madman in his way; for what was this\nclaim of age?--a piece of bravado, no doubt, like the rest.\n\n'That is strange,' I said, assenting, as when there is such a\nhallucination it is best to do. 'You can tell me, then, whence all this\nauthority comes, and why we are obliged to obey.'\n\nHe looked at me as if he were thinking in his mind how to hurt me most.\nThen, with that dry laugh, 'We make trial of all things in this world,'\nhe said, 'to see if perhaps we can find something we shall\nlike.--discipline here, freedom in the other place. When you have gone\nall the round like me, then perhaps you will be able to choose.'\n\n'Have you chosen?' I asked.\n\nHe only answered with a laugh. 'Come,' he said, 'there is amusement to be\nhad too, and that of the most elevated kind. We make researches here into\nthe moral nature of man. Will you come? But you must take the risk,' he\nadded with a smile which afterwards I understood.\n\nWe went on together after this till we reached the centre of the place,\nin which stood an immense building with a dome, which dominated the city,\nand into a great hall in the centre of that, where a crowd of people were\nassembled. The sound of human speech, which murmured all around, brought\nnew life to my heart. And as I gazed at a curious apparatus erected on a\nplatform, several people spoke to me.\n\n'We have again,' said one, 'the old subject to-day.'\n\n'Is it something about the constitution of the place?' I asked in the\nbewilderment of my mind. My neighbors looked at me with alarm, glancing\nbehind them to see what officials might be near.\n\n'The constitution of the place is the result of the sense of the\ninhabitants that order must be preserved,' said the one, who had spoken\nto me first. 'The lawless can find refuge in other places. Here we have\nchosen to have supervision, nuisances removed, and order kept. That is\nenough. The constitution is not under discussion.'\n\n'But man is,' said a second speaker. 'Let us keep to that in which we can\nmend nothing. Sir, you may have to contribute your quota to our\nenlightenment. We are investigating the rise of thought. You are a\nstranger; you may be able to help us.'\n\n'I am no philosopher,' I said with a panic which I could not explain\nto myself.\n\n'That does not matter. You are a fresh subject.' The speaker made a\nslight movement with his hand, and I turned round to escape in wild,\nsudden fright, though I had no conception what could be done to me; but\nthe crowd had pressed close round me, hemming one in on every side. I was\nso wildly alarmed that I struggled among them, pushing backwards with all\nmy force, and clearing a space round me with my arms; but my efforts were\nvain. Two of the officers suddenly appeared out of the crowd, and\nseizing me by the arms, forced me forwards. The throng dispersed before\nthem on either side, and I was half dragged, half lifted up upon the\nplatform, where stood the strange apparatus which I had contemplated with\na dull wonder when I came into the hall. My wonder did not last long. I\nfelt myself fixed in it, standing supported in that position by bands and\nsprings, so that no effort of mine was necessary to hold myself up, and\nnone possible to release myself. I was caught by every joint, sustained,\nsupported, exposed to the gaze of what seemed a world of upturned faces;\namong which I saw, with a sneer upon it, keeping a little behind the\ncrowd, the face of the man who had led me here. Above my head was a\nstrong light, more brilliant than anything I had ever seen, and which\nblazed upon my brain till the hair seemed to singe and the skin shrink. I\nhope I may never feel such a sensation again. The pitiless light went\ninto me like a knife; but even my cries were stopped by the framework in\nwhich I was bound. I could breathe and suffer, but that was all.\n\nThen some one got up on the platform above me and began to speak. He\nsaid, so far as I could comprehend in the anguish and torture in which I\nwas held, that the origin of thought was the question he was\ninvestigating, but that in every previous subject the confusion of ideas\nhad bewildered them, and the rapidity with which one followed another.\n'The present example has been found to exhibit great persistency of\nidea,' he said. 'We hope that by his means some clearer theory may be\narrived at.' Then he pulled over me a great movable lens as of a\nmicroscope, which concentrated the insupportable light. The wild,\nhopeless passion that raged within my soul had no outlet in the immovable\napparatus that held me. I was let down among the crowd, and exhibited to\nthem every secret movement of my being, by some awful process which I\nhave never fathomed. A burning fire was in my brain; flame seemed to run\nalong all my nerves; speechless, horrible, incommunicable fury raged in\nmy soul. But I was like a child--nay, like an image of wood or wax--in\nthe pitiless hands that held me. What was the cut of a surgeon's knife to\nthis? And I had thought _that_ cruel! And I was powerless, and could do\nnothing--to blast, to destroy, to burn with this same horrible flame the\nfiends that surrounded me, as I desired to do.\n\nSuddenly, in the raging fever of my thoughts, there surged up the\nrecollection of that word which had paralyzed all around, and myself\nwith them. The thought that I must share the anguish did not restrain me\nfrom my revenge. With a tremendous effort I got my voice, though the\ninstrument pressed upon my lips. I know not what I articulated save\n'God,' whether it was a curse or a blessing. I had been swung out into\nthe middle of the hall, and hung amid the crowd, exposed to all their\nobservations, when I succeeded in gaining utterance. My God! my God!\nAnother moment and I had forgotten them and all my fury in the tortures\nthat arose within myself. What, then, was the light that racked my brain?\nOnce more my life from its beginning to its end rose up before me,--each\nscene like a spectre, like the harpies of the old fables rending me with\ntooth and claw. Once more I saw what might have been, the noble things I\nmight have done, the happiness I had lost, the turnings of the fated road\nwhich I might have taken,--everything that was once so possible, so\npossible, so easy! but now possible no more. My anguish was immeasurable;\nI turned and wrenched myself, in the strength of pain, out of the\nmachinery that held me, and fell down, down among all the curses that\nwere being hurled at me,--among the horrible and miserable crowd. I had\nbrought upon them the evil which I shared, and they fell upon me with a\nfury which was like that which had prompted myself a few minutes before;\nbut they could do nothing to me so tremendous as the vengeance I had\ntaken upon them. I was too miserable to feel the blows that rained upon\nme, but presently I suppose I lost consciousness altogether, being almost\ntorn to pieces by the multitude.\n\nWhile this lasted, it seemed to me that I had a dream. I felt the blows\nraining down upon me, and my body struggling upon the ground; and yet\nit seemed to me that I was lying outside upon the ground, and above me\nthe pale sky which never brightened at the touch of the sun. And I\nthought that dull, persistent cloud wavered and broke for an instant,\nand that I saw behind a glimpse of that blue which is heaven when we\nare on the earth--the blue sky--which is nowhere to be seen but in the\nmortal life; which is heaven enough, which is delight enough, for those\nwho can look up to it, and feel themselves in the land of hope. It\nmight be but a dream; in this strange world who could tell what was\nvision and what was true?\n\nThe next thing I remember was that I found myself lying on the floor of\na great room full of people with every kind of disease and deformity,\nsome pale with sickness, some with fresh wounds, the lame, and the\nmaimed, and the miserable. They lay round me in every attitude of pain,\nmany with sores, some bleeding, with broken limbs, but all struggling,\nsome on hands and knees, dragging themselves up from the ground to stare\nat me. They roused in my mind a loathing and sense of disgust which it is\nimpossible to express. I could scarcely tolerate the thought that I--I!\nshould be forced to remain a moment in this lazar-house. The feeling with\nwhich I had regarded the miserable creature who shared the corner of the\nwall with me, and who had cursed me for being sorry for him, had\naltogether gone out of my mind. I called out, to whom I know not,\nadjuring some one to open the door and set me free; but my cry was\nanswered only by a shout from my companions in trouble. 'Who do you think\nwill let you out?' 'Who is going to help you more than the rest?' My\nwhole body was racked with pain; I could not move from the floor, on\nwhich I lay. I had to put up with the stares of the curious, and the\nmockeries and remarks on me of whoever chose to criticise. Among them\nwas the lame man whom I had seen thrust in by the two officers who had\ntaken me from the gate. He was the first to jibe. 'But for him they would\nnever have seen me,' he said. 'I should have been well by this time in\nthe fresh air.' 'It is his turn now,' said another. I turned my head as\nwell as I could and spoke to them all.\n\n'I am a stranger here,' I cried. 'They have made my brain burn with their\nexperiments. Will nobody help me? It is no fault of mine, it is their\nfault. If I am to be left here uncared for, I shall die.'\n\nAt this a sort of dreadful chuckle ran round the place. 'If that is what\nyou are afraid of, you will not die,' somebody said, touching me on my\nhead in a way which gave me intolerable pain. 'Don't touch me,' I cried.\n'Why shouldn't I?' said the other, and pushed me again upon the throbbing\nbrain. So far as my sensations went, there were no coverings at all,\nneither skull nor skin upon the intolerable throbbing of my head, which\nhad been exposed to the curiosity of the crowd, and every touch was\nagony; but my cry brought no guardian, nor any defence or soothing. I\ndragged myself into a corner after a time, from which some other wretch\nhad been rolled out in the course of a quarrel; and as I found that\nsilence was the only policy, I kept silent, with rage consuming my heart.\n\nPresently I discovered by means of the new arrivals which kept coming in,\nhurled into the midst of us without thought or question, that this was\nthe common fate of all who were repulsive to the sight, or who had any\nweakness or imperfection which offended the eyes of the population. They\nwere tossed in among us, not to be healed, or for repose or safety, but\nto be out of sight, that they might not disgust or annoy those who were\nmore fortunate, to whom no injury had happened; and because in their\nsickness and imperfection they were of no use in the studies of the\nplace, and disturbed the good order of the streets. And there they lay\none above another,--a mass of bruised and broken creatures, most of them\nsuffering from injuries which they had sustained in what would have been\ncalled in other regions the service of the State. They had served like\nmyself as objects of experiments. They had fallen from heights where they\nhad been placed in illustration of some theory. They had been tortured or\ntwisted to give satisfaction to some question. And then, that the\nconsequences of these proceedings might offend no one's eyes, they were\nflung into this receptacle, to be released if chance or strength enabled\nthem to push their way out when others were brought in, or when their\nimportunate knocking wearied some watchman, and brought him angry and\nthreatening to hear what was wanted. The sound of this knocking against\nthe door, and of the cries that accompanied it, and the rush towards the\nopening when any one was brought in, caused a hideous continuous noise\nand scuffle which was agony to my brain. Every one pushed before the\nother; there was an endless rising and falling as in the changes of a\nfeverish dream, each man as he got strength to struggle forwards himself,\nthrusting back his neighbors, and those who were nearest to the door\nbeating upon it without cease, like the beating of a drum without cadence\nor measure, sometimes a dozen passionate hands together, making a\nhorrible din and riot. As I lay unable to join in that struggle, and\nmoved by rage unspeakable towards all who could, I reflected strangely\nthat I had never heard when outside this horrible continual appeal of the\nsuffering. In the streets of the city, as I now reflected, quiet reigned.\nI had even made comparisons on my first entrance, in the moment of\npleasant anticipation which came over me, of the happy stillness here\nwith the horror and tumult of that place of unrule which I had left.\n\nWhen my thoughts reached this point I was answered by the voice of some\none on a level with myself, lying helpless like me on the floor of the\nlazar-house. 'They have taken their precautions,' he said; 'if they will\nnot endure the sight of suffering, how should they hear the sound of it?\nEvery cry is silenced there.'\n\n'I wish they could be silenced within too,' I cried savagely; 'I would\nmake them dumb had I the power.'\n\n'The spirit of the place is in you,' said the other voice.\n\n'And not in you?' I said, raising my head, though every movement was\nagony; but this pretence of superiority was more than I could bear.\n\nThe other made no answer for a moment; then he said faintly, 'If it is\nso, it is but for greater misery.'\n\nAnd then his voice died away, and the hubbub of beating and crying and\ncursing and groaning filled all the echoes. They cried, but no one\nlistened to them. They thundered on the door, but in vain. They\naggravated all their pangs in that mad struggle to get free. After a\nwhile my companion, whoever he was, spoke again.\n\n'They would rather,' he said, 'lie on the roadside to be kicked and\ntrodden on, as we have seen; though to see that made you miserable.'\n\n'Made me miserable! You mock me,' I said. 'Why should a man be miserable\nsave for suffering of his own?'\n\n'You thought otherwise once,' my neighbor said.\n\nAnd then I remembered the wretch in the corner of the wall in the\nother town, who had cursed me for pitying him. I cursed myself now for\nthat folly. Pity him! was he not better off than I? 'I wish,' I cried,\n'that I could crush them into nothing, and be rid of this infernal\nnoise they make!'\n\n'The spirit of the place has entered into you,' said that voice.\n\nI raised my arm to strike him; but my hand fell on the stone floor\ninstead, and sent a jar of new pain all through my battered frame. And\nthen I mastered my rage and lay still, for I knew there was no way but\nthis of recovering my strength,--the strength with which, when I got it\nback, I would annihilate that reproachful voice and crush the life out of\nthose groaning fools, whose cries and impotent struggles I could not\nendure. And we lay a long time without moving, with always that tumult\nraging in our ears. At last there came into my mind a longing to hear\nspoken words again. I said, 'Are you still there?'\n\n'I shall be here,' he said, 'till I am able to begin again.'\n\n'To begin! Is there here, then, either beginning or ending? Go on; speak\nto me; it makes me a little forget my pain.'\n\n'I have a fire in my heart,' he said; 'I must begin and begin--till\nperhaps I find the way.'\n\n'What way?' I cried, feverish and eager; for though I despised him, yet\nit made me wonder to think that he should speak riddles which I could not\nunderstand.\n\nHe answered very faintly, 'I do not know.' The fool! then it was only\nfolly, as from the first I knew it was. I felt then that I could treat\nhim roughly, after the fashion of the place--which he said had got into\nme. 'Poor wretch!' I said, 'you have hopes, have you? Where have you come\nfrom? You might have learned better before now.'\n\n'I have come,' he said, 'from where we met before. I have come by the\nvalley of gold. I have worked in the mines. I have served in the troops\nof those who are masters there. I have lived in this town of tyrants, and\nlain in this lazar-house before. Everything has happened to me, more and\nworse than you dream of.'\n\n'And still you go on? I would dash my head against the wall and die.'\n\n'When will you learn,' he said with a strange tone in his voice, which,\nthough no one had been listening to us, made a sudden silence for a\nmoment, it was so strange; it moved me like that glimmer of the blue\nsky in my dream, and roused all the sufferers round with an\nexpectation--though I know not what. The cries stopped; the hands beat no\nlonger. I think all the miserable crowd were still, and turned to where\nhe lay. 'When will you learn--that you have died, and can die no more?'\n\nThere was a shout of fury all around me. 'Is that all you have to say?'\nthe crowd burst forth; and I think they rushed upon him and killed him,\nfor I heard no more until the hubbub began again more wild than ever,\nwith furious hands beating, beating against the locked door.\n\nAfter a while I began to feel my strength come back. I raised my head. I\nsat up. I began to see the faces of those around me, and the groups\ninto which they gathered; the noise was no longer so insupportable,--my\nracked nerves were regaining health. It was with a mixture of pleasure\nand despair that I became conscious of this. I had been through many\ndeaths; but I did not die, perhaps could not, as that man had said. I\nlooked about for him, to see if he had contradicted his own theory. But\nhe was not dead. He was lying close to me, covered with wounds; but he\nopened his eyes, and something like a smile came upon his lips. A\nsmile,--I had heard laughter, and seen ridicule and derision, but this I\nhad not seen. I could not bear it. To seize him and shake the little\nremaining life out of him was my impulse; but neither did I obey that.\nAgain he reminded me of my dream--was it a dream?--of the opening in the\nclouds. From that moment I tried to shelter him, and as I grew stronger\nand stronger and pushed my way to the door, I dragged him along with me.\nHow long the struggle was I cannot tell, or how often I was balked, or\nhow many darted through before me when the door was opened. But I\ndid not let him go; and at last, for now I was as strong as\nbefore,--stronger than most about me,--I got out into the air and\nbrought him with me. Into the air! it was an atmosphere so still and\nmotionless that there was no feeling of life in it, as I have said; but\nthe change seemed to me happiness for the moment. It was freedom. The\nnoise of the struggle was over; the horrible sights were left behind. My\nspirit sprang up as if I had been born into new life. It had the same\neffect, I suppose, upon my companion, though he was much weaker than I,\nfor he rose to his feet at once with almost a leap of eagerness, and\nturned instantaneously towards the other side of the city.\n\n'Not that way,' I said; 'come with me and rest.'\n\n'No rest--no rest--my rest is to go on;' and then he turned towards me\nand smiled and said, 'Thanks'--looking into my face. What a word to hear!\nI had not heard it since--A rush of strange and sweet and dreadful\nthoughts came into my mind. I shrank and trembled, and let go his arm,\nwhich I had been holding; but when I left that hold I seemed to fall back\ninto depths of blank pain and longing. I put out my hand again and caught\nhim. 'I will go,' I said, 'where you go.'\n\nA pair of the officials of the place passed as I spoke. They looked at\nme with a threatening glance, and half paused, but then passed on. It\nwas I now who hurried my companion along. I recollected him now. He\nwas a man who had met me in the streets of the other city when I was\nstill ignorant, who had convulsed me with the utterance of that name\nwhich, in all this world where we were, is never named but for\npunishment,--the name which I had named once more in the great hall in\nthe midst of my torture, so that all who heard me were transfixed with\nthat suffering too. He had been haggard then, but he was more haggard\nnow. His features were sharp with continual pain; his eyes were wild\nwith weakness and trouble, though there was a meaning in them which\nwent to my heart. It seemed to me that in his touch there was a certain\nhelp, though he was weak and tottered, and every moment seemed full of\nsuffering. Hope sprang up in my mind,--the hope that where he was so\neager to go there would be something better, a life more livable than\nin this place. In every new place there is new hope. I was not worn out\nof that human impulse. I forgot the nightmare which had crushed me\nbefore,--the horrible sense that from myself there was no escape,--and\nholding fast to his arm, I hurried on with him, not heeding where. We\nwent aside into less frequented streets, that we might escape\nobservation. I seemed to myself the guide, though I was the follower.\nA great faith in this man sprang up in my breast. I was ready to go\nwith him wherever he went, anywhere--anywhere must be better than this.\nThus I pushed him on, holding by his arm, till we reached the very\noutmost limits of the city. Here he stood still for a moment, turning\nupon me, and took me by the hands.\n\n'Friend,' he said, 'before you were born into the pleasant earth I had\ncome here. I have gone all the weary round. Listen to one who knows: all\nis harder, harder, as you go on. You are stirred to go on by the\nrestlessness in your heart, and each new place you come to, the spirit of\nthat place enters into you. You are better here than you will be farther\non. You were better where you were at first, or even in the mines, than\nhere. Come no farther. Stay; unless--' but here his voice gave way. He\nlooked at me with anxiety in his eyes, and said no more.\n\n'Then why,' I cried, 'do you go on? Why do you not stay?'\n\nHe shook his head, and his eyes grew more and more soft. 'I am going,' he\nsaid, and his voice shook again. 'I am going--to try--the most awful and\nthe most dangerous journey--' His voice died away altogether, and he only\nlooked at me to say the rest.\n\n'A journey? Where?'\n\nI can tell no man what his eyes said. I understood, I cannot tell how;\nand with trembling all my limbs seemed to drop out of joint and my face\ngrow moist with terror. I could not speak any more than he, but with my\nlips shaped, How? The awful thought made a tremor in the very air around.\nHe shook his head slowly as he looked at me, his eyes, all circled with\ndeep lines, looking out of caves of anguish and anxiety; and then I\nremembered how he had said, and I had scoffed at him, that the way he\nsought was one he did not know. I had dropped his hands in my fear; and\nyet to leave him seemed dragging the heart out of my breast, for none but\nhe had spoken to me like a brother, had taken my hand and thanked me. I\nlooked out across the plain, and the roads seemed tranquil and still.\nThere was a coolness in the air. It looked like evening, as if somewhere\nin those far distances there might be a place where a weary soul might\nrest; and I looked behind me, and thought what I had suffered, and\nremembered the lazar-house and the voices that cried and the hands that\nbeat against the door, and also the horrible quiet of the room in which I\nlived, and the eyes which looked in at me and turned my gaze upon myself.\nThen I rushed after him, for he had turned to go on upon his way, and\ncaught at his clothes, crying, 'Behold me, behold me! I will go too!'\n\nHe reached me his hand and went on without a word; and I with terror\ncrept after him, treading in his steps, following like his shadow. What\nit was to walk with another, and follow, and be at one, is more than I\ncan tell; but likewise my heart failed me for fear, for dread of what we\nmight encounter, and of hearing that name or entering that presence which\nwas more terrible than all torture. I wondered how it could be that one\nshould willingly face _that_ which racked the soul, and how he had\nlearned that it was possible, and where he had heard of the way. And as\nwe went on I said no word, for he began to seem to me a being of another\nkind, a figure full of awe; and I followed as one might follow a ghost.\nWhere would he go? Were we not fixed here forever, where our lot had been\ncast? And there were still many other great cities where there might be\nmuch to see, and something to distract the mind, and where it might be\nmore possible to live than it had proved in the other places. There might\nbe no tyrants there, nor cruelty, nor horrible noises, nor dreadful\nsilence. Towards the right hand, across the plain, there seemed to rise\nout of the gray distance a cluster of towers and roofs like another\nhabitable place; and who could tell that something better might not be\nthere? Surely everything could not turn to torture and misery. I dragged\non behind him, with all these thoughts hurrying through my mind. He was\ngoing--I dare to say it now, though I did not dare then--to seek out a\nway to God; to try, if it was possible, to find the road that led\nback,--that road which had been open once to all. But for me, I trembled\nat the thought of that road. I feared the name, which was as the plunging\nof a sword into my inmost parts. All things could be borne but that. I\ndared not even think upon that name. To feel my hand in another man's\nhand was much, but to be led into that awful presence, by awful ways,\nwhich none knew--how could I bear it? My spirits failed me, and my\nstrength. My hand became loose in his hand; he grasped me still, but my\nhold failed, and ever with slower and slower steps I followed, while he\nseemed to acquire strength with every winding of the way. At length he\nsaid to me, looking back upon me, 'I cannot stop; but your heart falls\nyou. Shall I loose my hand and let you go?'\n\n'I am afraid; I am afraid!' I cried.\n\n'And I too am afraid; but it is better to suffer more and to escape than\nto suffer less and to remain.'\n\n'Has it ever been known that one escaped? No one has ever escaped. This\nis our place,' I said; 'there is no other world.'\n\n'There are other worlds; there is a world where every way leads to One\nwho loves us still.'\n\nI cried out with a great cry of misery and scorn. 'There is no\nlove!' I said.\n\nHe stood still for a moment and turned and looked at me. His eyes seemed\nto melt my soul. A great cloud passed over them, as in the pleasant earth\na cloud will sweep across the moon; and then the light came out and\nlooked at me again, for neither did he know. Where he was going all might\nend in despair and double and double pain. But if it were possible that\nat the end there should be found that for which he longed, upon which his\nheart was set! He said with a faltering voice, 'Among all whom I have\nquestioned and seen, there was but one who found the way. But if one has\nfound it, so may I. If you will not come, yet let me go.'\n\n'They will tear you limb from limb; they will burn you in the endless\nfires,' I said. But what is it to be torn limb from limb, or burned with\nfire? There came upon his face a smile, and in my heart even I laughed to\nscorn what I had said.\n\n'If I were dragged every nerve apart, and every thought turned into a\nfiery dart,--and that is so,' he said,--'yet will I go, if but perhaps I\nmay see Love at the end.'\n\n'There is no love!' I cried again with a sharp and bitter cry; and the\necho seemed to come back and back from every side, No love! no love! till\nthe man who was my friend faltered and stumbled like a drunken man; but\nafterwards he recovered strength and resumed his way.\n\nAnd thus once more we went on. On the right hand was that city, growing\never clearer, with noble towers rising up to the sky, and battlements and\nlofty roofs, and behind a yellow clearness, as of a golden sunset. My\nheart drew me there; it sprang up in my breast and sang in my ears, Come,\nand come. Myself invited me to this new place as to a home. The others\nwere wretched, but this will be happy,--delights and pleasures will be\nthere. And before us the way grew dark with storms, and there grew\nvisible among the mists a black line of mountains, perpendicular cliffs,\nand awful precipices, which seemed to bar the way. I turned from that\nline of gloomy heights, and gazed along the path to where the towers\nstood up against the sky. And presently my hand dropped by my side, that\nhad been held in my companion's hand; and I saw him no more.\n\nI went on to the city of the evening light. Ever and ever, as I proceeded\non my way, the sense of haste and restless impatience grew upon me, so\nthat I felt myself incapable of remaining long in a place, and my desire\ngrew stronger to hasten on and on; but when I entered the gates of the\ncity this longing vanished from my mind. There seemed some great festival\nor public holiday going on there. The streets were full of\npleasure-parties, and in every open place (of which there were many) were\nbands of dancers, and music playing; and the houses about were hung with\ntapestries and embroideries and garlands of flowers. A load seemed to be\ntaken from my spirit when I saw all this,--for a whole population does\nnot rejoice in such a way without some cause. And to think that after\nall I had found a place in which I might live and forget the misery and\npain which I had known, and all that was behind me, was delightful to my\nsoul. It seemed to me that all the dancers were beautiful and young,\ntheir steps went gayly to the music, their faces were bright with smiles.\nHere and there was a master of the feast, who arranged the dances and\nguided the musicians, yet seemed to have a look and smile for new-comers\ntoo. One of these came forwards to meet me, and received me with a\nwelcome, and showed me a vacant place at the table, on which were\nbeautiful fruits piled up in baskets, and all the provisions for a meal.\n'You were expected, you perceive,' he said. A delightful sense of\nwell-being came into my mind. I sat down in the sweetness of ease after\nfatigue, of refreshment after weariness, of pleasant sounds and sights\nafter the arid way. I said to myself that my past experiences had been a\nmistake, that this was where I ought to have come from the first, that\nlife here would be happy, and that all intruding thoughts must soon\nvanish and die away.\n\nAfter I had rested, I strolled about, and entered fully into the\npleasures of the place. Wherever I went, through all the city, there was\nnothing but brightness and pleasure, music playing, and flags waving, and\nflowers and dancers and everything that was most gay. I asked several\npeople whom I met what was the cause of the rejoicing; but either they\nwere too much occupied with their own pleasures, or my question was lost\nin the hum of merriment, the sound of the instruments and of the dancers'\nfeet. When I had seen as much as I desired of the pleasure out of doors,\nI was taken by some to see the interiors of houses, which were all\ndecorated for this festival, whatever it was, lighted up with curious\nvarieties of lighting, in tints of different colors. The doors and\nwindows were all open; and whosoever would could come in from the dance\nor from the laden tables, and sit down where they pleased and rest,\nalways with a pleasant view out upon the streets, so that they should\nlose nothing of the spectacle. And the dresses, both of women and men,\nwere beautiful in form and color, made in the finest fabrics, and\naffording delightful combinations to the eye. The pleasure which I took\nin all I saw and heard was enhanced by the surprise of it, and by the\naspect of the places from which I had come, where there was no regard to\nbeauty nor anything lovely or bright. Before my arrival here I had come\nin my thoughts to the conclusion that life had no brightness in these\nregions, and that whatever occupation or study there might be, pleasure\nhad ended and was over, and everything that had been sweet in the former\nlife. I changed that opinion with a sense of relief, which was more warm\neven than the pleasure of the present moment; for having made one such\nmistake, how could I tell that there were not more discoveries awaiting\nme, that life might not prove more endurable, might not rise to something\ngrander and more powerful? The old prejudices, the old foregone\nconclusion of earth that this was a world of punishment, had warped my\nvision and my thoughts. With so many added faculties of being, incapable\nof fatigue as we were, incapable of death, recovering from every wound or\naccident as I had myself done, and with no foolish restraint as to what\nwe should or should not do, why might not we rise in this land to\nstrength unexampled, to the highest powers? I rejoiced that I had dropped\nmy companion's hand, that I had not followed him in his mad quest.\nSometime, I said to myself, I would make a pilgrimage to the foot of\nthose gloomy mountains, and bring him back, all racked and tortured as\nhe was, and show him the pleasant place which he had missed.\n\nIn the mean time the music and the dance went on. But it began to\nsurprise me a little that there was no pause, that the festival continued\nwithout intermission. I went up to one of those who seemed the masters of\nceremony, directing what was going on. He was an old man, with a flowing\nrobe of brocade, and a chain and badge which denoted his office. He stood\nwith a smile upon his lips, beating time with his hand to the music,\nwatching the figure of the dance.\n\n'I can get no one to tell me,' I said, 'what the occasion of all this\nrejoicing is.'\n\n'It is for your coming,' he replied without hesitation, with a smile\nand a bow.\n\nFor the moment a wonderful elation came over me. 'For my coming!' But\nthen I paused and shook my head. 'There are others coming besides me.\nSee! they arrive every moment.'\n\n'It is for their coming too,' he said with another smile and a still\ndeeper bow; 'but you are the first as you are the chief.'\n\nThis was what I could not understand; but it was pleasant to hear, and I\nmade no further objection. 'And how long will it go on?' I said.\n\n'So long as it pleases you,' said the old courtier.\n\nHow he smiled! His smile did not please me. He saw this, and distracted\nmy attention. 'Look at this dance,' he said; 'how beautiful are those\nround young limbs! Look how the dress conceals yet shows the form and\nbeautiful movements! It was invented in your honor. All that is lovely\nis for you. Choose where you will, all is yours. We live only for this;\nall is for you.' While he spoke, the dancers came nearer and nearer till\nthey circled us round, and danced and made their pretty obeisances, and\nsang, 'All is yours; all is for you;' then breaking their lines, floated\naway in other circles and processions and endless groups, singing and\nlaughing till it seemed to ring from every side, 'Everything is yours;\nall is for you.'\n\nI accepted this flattery I know not why, for I soon became aware that I\nwas no more than others, and that the same words were said to every\nnew-comer. Yet my heart was elated, and I threw myself into all that was\nset before me. But there was always in my mind an expectation that\npresently the music and the dancing would cease, and the tables be\nwithdrawn, and a pause come. At one of the feasts I was placed by the\nside of a lady very fair and richly dressed, but with a look of great\nweariness in her eyes. She turned her beautiful face to me, not with any\nshow of pleasure, and there was something like compassion in her look.\nShe said, 'You are very tired,' as she made room for me by her side.\n\n'Yes,' I said, though with surprise, for I had not yet acknowledged\nthat even to myself. 'There is so much to enjoy. We have need of a\nlittle rest.'\n\n'Of rest!' said she, shaking her head, 'this is not the place for rest.'\n\n'Yet pleasure requires it,' I said, 'as much as--' I was about to say\npain; but why should one speak of pain in a place given up to\npleasure? She smiled faintly and shook her head again. All her\nmovements were languid and faint; her eyelids drooped over her eyes.\nYet when I turned to her, she made an effort to smile. 'I think you\nare also tired,' I said.\n\nAt this she roused herself a little. 'We must not say so; nor do I say\nso. Pleasure is very exacting. It demands more of you than anything else.\nOne must be always ready--'\n\n'For what?'\n\n'To give enjoyment and to receive it.' There was an effort in her voice\nto rise to this sentiment, but it fell back into weariness again.\n\n'I hope you receive as well as give,' I said.\n\nThe lady turned her eyes to me with a look which I cannot forget, and\nlife seemed once more to be roused within her, but not the life of\npleasure; her eyes were full of loathing and fatigue and disgust and\ndespair. 'Are you so new to this place,' she said, 'and have not learned\neven yet what is the height of all misery and all weariness; what is\nworse than pain and trouble, more dreadful than the lawless streets and\nthe burning mines, and the torture of the great hall and the misery of\nthe lazar-house--'\n\n'Oh, lady,' I said, 'have you been there?'\n\nShe answered me with her eyes alone; there was no need of more. 'But\npleasure is more terrible than all,' she said; and I knew in my heart\nthat what she said was true.\n\nThere is no record of time in that place. I could not count it by days or\nnights; but soon after this it happened to me that the dances and the\nmusic became no more than a dizzy maze of sound and sight which made my\nbrain whirl round and round, and I too loathed what was spread on the\ntable, and the soft couches, and the garlands, and the fluttering flags\nand ornaments. To sit forever at a feast, to see forever the merrymakers\nturn round and round, to hear in your ears forever the whirl of the\nmusic, the laughter, the cries of pleasure! There were some who went on\nand on, and never seemed to tire; but to me the endless round came at\nlast to be a torture from which I could not escape. Finally, I could\ndistinguish nothing,--neither what I heard nor what I saw; and only a\nconsciousness of something intolerable buzzed and echoed in my brain. I\nlonged for the quiet of the place I had left; I longed for the noise in\nthe streets, and the hubbub and tumult of my first experiences. Anything,\nanything rather than this! I said to myself; and still the dancers\nturned, the music sounded, the bystanders smiled, and everything went on\nand on. My eyes grew weary with seeing, and my ears with hearing. To\nwatch the new-comers rush in, all pleased and eager, to see the eyes of\nthe others glaze with weariness, wrought upon my strained nerves. I could\nnot think, I could not rest, I could not endure. Music forever and\never,--a whirl, a rush of music, always going on and on; and ever that\nmaze of movement, till the eyes were feverish and the mouth parched;\never that mist of faces, now one gleaming out of the chaos, now another,\nsome like the faces of angels, some miserable, weary, strained with\nsmiling, with the monotony, and the endless, aimless, never-changing\nround. I heard myself calling to them to be still--to be still! to pause\na moment. I felt myself stumble and turn round in the giddiness and\nhorror of that movement without repose. And finally, I fell under the\nfeet of the crowd, and felt the whirl go over and over me, and beat upon\nmy brain, until I was pushed and thrust out of the way lest I should\nstop the measure. There I lay, sick, satiate, for I know not how\nlong,--loathing everything around me, ready to give all I had (but what\nhad I to give?) for one moment of silence. But always the music went on,\nand the dancers danced, and the people feasted, and the songs and the\nvoices echoed up to the skies.\n\nHow at last I stumbled forth I cannot tell. Desperation must have moved\nme, and that impatience which after every hope and disappointment comes\nback and back,--the one sensation that never fails. I dragged myself at\nlast by intervals, like a sick dog, outside the revels, still hearing\nthem, which was torture to me, even when at last I got beyond the crowd.\nIt was something to lie still upon the ground, though without power to\nmove, and sick beyond all thought, loathing myself and all that I had\nbeen and seen. For I had not even the sense that I had been wronged to\nkeep me up, but only a nausea and horror of movement, a giddiness and\nwhirl of every sense. I lay like a log upon the ground.\n\nWhen I recovered my faculties a little, it was to find myself once more\nin the great vacant plain which surrounded that accursed home of\npleasure,--a great and desolate waste upon which I could see no track,\nwhich my heart fainted to look at, which no longer roused any hope in me,\nas if it might lead to another beginning, or any place in which yet at\nthe last it might be possible to live. As I lay in that horrible\ngiddiness and faintness, I loathed life and this continuance which\nbrought me through one misery after another, and forbade me to die. Oh\nthat death would come,--death, which is silent and still, which makes no\nmovement and hears no sound! that I might end and be no more! Oh that I\ncould go back even to the stillness of that chamber which I had not been\nable to endure! Oh that I could return,--return! to what? To other\nmiseries and other pain, which looked less because they were past. But I\nknew now that return was impossible until I had circled all the dreadful\nround; and already I felt again the burning of that desire that pricked\nand drove me on,--not back, for that was impossible. Little by little I\nhad learned to understand, each step printed upon my brain as with\nred-hot irons: not back, but on, and on--to greater anguish, yes; but on,\nto fuller despair, to experiences more terrible,--but on, and on, and on.\nI arose again, for this was my fate. I could not pause even for all the\nteachings of despair.\n\nThe waste stretched far as eyes could see. It was wild and terrible, with\nneither vegetation nor sign of life. Here and there were heaps of ruin,\nwhich had been villages and cities; but nothing was in them save reptiles\nand crawling poisonous life and traps for the unwary wanderer. How often\nI stumbled and fell among these ashes and dust-heaps of the past! Through\nwhat dread moments I lay, with cold and slimy things leaving their trace\nupon my flesh! The horrors which seized me, so that I beat my head\nagainst a stone,--why should I tell? These were nought; they touched not\nthe soul. They were but accidents of the way.\n\nAt length, when body and soul were low and worn out with misery and\nweariness, I came to another place, where all was so different from the\nlast that the sight gave me a momentary solace. It was full of furnaces\nand clanking machinery and endless work. The whole air round was aglow\nwith the fury of the fires; and men went and came like demons in the\nflames, with red-hot melting metal, pouring it into moulds and beating\nit on anvils. In the huge workshops in the background there was a\nperpetual whir of machinery, of wheels turning and turning, and pistons\nbeating, and all the din of labor, which for a time renewed the anguish\nof my brain, yet also soothed it,--for there was meaning in the beatings\nand the whirlings. And a hope rose within me that with all the forces\nthat were here, some revolution might be possible,--something that would\nchange the features of this place and overturn the worlds. I went from\nworkshop to workshop, and examined all that was being done, and\nunderstood,--for I had known a little upon the earth, and my old\nknowledge came back, and to learn so much more filled me with new life.\nThe master of all was one who never rested, nor seemed to feel\nweariness nor pain nor pleasure. He had everything in his hand. All who\nwere there were his workmen or his assistants or his servants. No one\nshared with him in his councils. He was more than a prince among them;\nhe was as a god. And the things he planned and made, and at which in\narmies and legions his workmen toiled and labored, were like living\nthings. They were made of steel and iron, but they moved like the brains\nand nerves of men. They went where he directed them, and did what he\ncommanded, and moved at a touch. And though he talked little, when he\nsaw how I followed all that he did, he was a little moved towards me,\nand spoke and explained to me the conceptions that were in his mind, one\nrising out of another, like the leaf out of the stem and the flower out\nof the bud. For nothing pleased him that he did, and necessity was upon\nhim to go on and on.\n\n'They are like living things,' I said; 'they do your bidding, whatever\nyou command them. They are like another and a stronger race of men.'\n\n'Men!' he said, 'what are men? The most contemptible of all things that\nare made,--creatures who will undo in a moment what it has taken\nmillions of years, and all the skill and all the strength of generations\nto do. These are better than men. They cannot think or feel. They cannot\nstop but at my bidding, or begin unless I will. Had men been made so, we\nshould be masters of the world.'\n\n'Had men been made so, you would never have been,--for what could genius\nhave done or thought?--you would have been a machine like all the rest.'\n\n'And better so!' he said, and turned away; for at that moment, watching\nkeenly as he spoke the action of a delicate combination of movements, all\nmade and balanced to a hair's breadth, there had come to him suddenly the\nidea of something which made it a hundredfold more strong and terrible.\nFor they were terrible, these things that lived yet did not live, which\nwere his slaves and moved at his will. When he had done this, he looked\nat me, and a smile came upon his mouth; but his eyes smiled not, nor ever\nchanged from the set look they wore. And the words he spoke were familiar\nwords, not his, but out of the old life. 'What a piece of work is a man!'\nhe said; 'how noble in reason, how infinite in faculty! in form and\nmoving how express and admirable! And yet to me what is this\nquintessence of dust?' His mind had followed another strain of thought,\nwhich to me was bewildering, so that I did not know how to reply. I\nanswered like a child, upon his last word.\n\n'We are dust no more,' I cried, for pride was in my heart,--pride of him\nand his wonderful strength, and his thoughts which created strength, and\nall the marvels he did; 'those things which hindered are removed. Go on;\ngo on! you want but another step. What is to prevent that you should not\nshake the universe, and overturn this doom, and break all our bonds?\nThere is enough here to explode this gray fiction of a firmament, and to\nrend those precipices, and to dissolve that waste,--as at the time when\nthe primeval seas dried up, and those infernal mountains rose.'\n\nHe laughed, and the echoes caught the sound and gave it back as if\nthey mocked it. 'There is enough to rend us all into shreds,' he said,\n'and shake, as you say, both heaven and earth, and these plains and\nthose hills.'\n\n'Then why,' I cried in my haste, with a dreadful hope piercing through my\nsoul--'why do you create and perfect, but never employ? When we had\narmies on the earth, we used them. You have more than armies; you have\nforce beyond the thoughts of man, but all without use as yet.'\n\n'All,' he cried, 'for no use! All in vain!--in vain!'\n\n'O master!' I said, 'great and more great in time to come, why?--why?'\n\nHe took me by the arm and drew me close.\n\n'Have you strength,' he said, 'to bear it if I tell you why?'\n\nI knew what he was about to say. I felt it in the quivering of my veins,\nand my heart that bounded as if it would escape from my breast; but I\nwould not quail from what he did not shrink to utter. I could speak no\nword, but I looked him in the face and waited--for that which was more\nterrible than all.\n\nHe held me by the arm, as if he would hold me up when the shock of\nanguish came. 'They are in vain,' he said, 'in vain--because God rules\nover all.'\n\nHis arm was strong; but I fell at his feet like a dead man.\n\nHow miserable is that image, and how unfit to use! Death is still and\ncool and sweet. There is nothing in it that pierces like a sword, that\nburns like fire, that rends and tears like the turning wheels. O life, O\npain, O terrible name of God in which is all succor and all torment!\nWhat are pangs and tortures to that, which ever increases in its awful\npower, and has no limit nor any alleviation, but whenever it is spoken\npenetrates through and through the miserable soul? O God, whom once I\ncalled my Father! O Thou who gavest me being, against whom I have fought,\nwhom I fight to the end, shall there never be anything but anguish in the\nsound of Thy great name?\n\nWhen I returned to such command of myself as one can have who has been\ntransfixed by that sword of fire, the master stood by me still. He had\nnot fallen like me, but his face was drawn with anguish and sorrow like\nthe face of my friend who had been with me in the lazar-house, who had\ndisappeared on the dark mountains. And as I looked at him, terror seized\nhold upon me, and a desire to flee and save myself, that I might not be\ndrawn after him by the longing that was in his eyes.\n\nThe master gave me his hand to help me to rise, and it trembled, but not\nlike mine.\n\n'Sir,' I cried, 'have not we enough to bear? Is it for hatred, is it for\nvengeance, that you speak that name?'\n\n'O friend,' he said, 'neither for hatred nor revenge. It is like a fire\nin my veins; if one could find Him again!'\n\n'You, who are as a god, who can make and destroy,--you, who could shake\nHis throne!'\n\nHe put up his hand. 'I who am His creature, even here--and still His\nchild, though I am so far, so far--' He caught my hand in his, and\npointed with the other trembling. 'Look! your eyes are more clear\nthan mine, for they are not anxious like mine. Can you see anything\nupon the way?'\n\nThe waste lay wild before us, dark with a faintly-rising cloud, for\ndarkness and cloud and the gloom of death attended upon that name. I\nthought, in his great genius and splendor of intellect, he had gone mad,\nas sometimes may be. 'There is nothing,' I said, and scorn came into my\nsoul; but even as I spoke I saw--I cannot tell what I saw--a moving spot\nof milky whiteness in that dark and miserable wilderness, no bigger than\na man's hand, no bigger than a flower. 'There is something,' I said\nunwillingly; 'it has no shape nor form. It is a gossamer-web upon some\nbush, or a butterfly blown on the wind.'\n\n'There are neither butterflies nor gossamers here.'\n\n'Look for yourself, then!' I cried, flinging his hand from me. I was\nangry with a rage which had no cause. I turned from him, though I loved\nhim, with a desire to kill him in my heart, and hurriedly took the other\nway. The waste was wild; but rather that than to see the man who might\nhave shaken earth and hell thus turning, turning to madness and the awful\njourney. For I knew what in his heart he thought; and I knew that it was\nso. It was something from that other sphere; can I tell you what? A child\nperhaps--O thought that wrings the heart!--for do you know what manner of\nthing a child is? There are none in the land of darkness. I turned my\nback upon the place where that whiteness was. On, on, across the waste!\nOn to the cities of the night! On, far away from maddening thought, from\nhope that is torment, and from the awful Name!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe above narrative, though it is necessary to a full understanding of\nthe experiences of the Little Pilgrim in the Unseen, does not belong to\nher personal story in any way, but is drawn from the Archives in the\nHeavenly City, where all the records of the human race are laid up.","title":"The Little Pilgrim: Further Experiences.: Stories of the Seen and the Unseen.","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":42095}